Haven
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: A reboot of Home with a classic role reversal. [RTP and Troshi. Complete.]
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I've been wanting to write this for quite some time, a second attempt at a chapter fic proper. I've taken it upon myself to reboot Home with a bit of sleight of hand and a twist of fate. Pairings include Troshi and RTP, so please, if those couples do not appeal to you, I implore you to hit the backspace button and keep searching for your next read. However, if you have an open mind to experimentation with canon, I welcome your opinions with earnest!

I've already outlined this story, so there will be fewer stoppages than there were in RDWO. I'm graduating high school in a matter of weeks, so we'll have nothing but time! This is an attempt to return to my humbler beginnings as an angst and hurt/comfort writer, before the fluffy plot bunnies took over. That is to say that plenty of inner monologues and introspection await you in subsequent chapters.

Many thanks to BonesBird for her eternal patience and beta services. As a disclaimer, I do not own these characters. But you already knew that.

 **Haven**

 **Chapter One**

"I've been told that people are calling us heroes."

The Captain's words were reverberating around in Trip's head, and not just because the microphone on his lapel was tapped into every loud speaker within a half mile radius. Sandwiched between his best friend Malcolm and Commander T'Pol, he could make out a few faces of the crowd some distance away. They were enthralled, hanging on Jonathan's every word.

Perhaps if they knew what these supposedly heroic acts entailed, they wouldn't be so supportive.

"I think it's important that we remember the heroes that aren't with us—the twenty seven crewmen that didn't make it back."

Yeah, like Crewman Taylor. If Trip concentrated, he could still see deep brown eyes and her honeyed blonde hair as she had appeared in his dream, shaming him for his struggle in writing her parents the letter announcing her passing. But for all of his self pity, Trip knew that Jane would not have spoken as harshly to him as the apparition had. She was gentle, devoted; hell, she had left her quarters in the middle of a firefight to report to her station. And she had _almost_ made it.

If only she had gone a few more meters.

"Without their sacrifice, I wouldn't be standing here right now. None of us would."

Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that Malcolm and Travis exchanged a pained expression. Both had lost valuable members of their department in the battle. It was naïve of him to think that he was the only one suffering.

"But I'm sure I speak on behalf of my entire crew when I say it's good to be home!"

 _Home_. That was the word that stuck out to Trip as thunderous applause erupted around him. The Tucker home on the beach had been destroyed by the Xindi weapon less than a year beforehand, killing his sister and rendering him bereft. Luckily, his parents had been visiting friends in Georgia that weekend, and that's where they remained. It was almost as if they were scared to visit the wreckage, to stake claim to the land where every single one of his childhood memories had been evaporated in an instant.

He didn't have a home. Not anymore.

-0-

The sun sets on San Francisco, leaving the stadium awash with a crimson and auburn glow. Much of the senior staff has returned to the ship to prepare for shore leave, but not Trip. He had drawn his lots, and while the other winners of the first rotation had celebrated, he had only stared at the form with despondence.

It was a hell of a thing, to have a weary body coupled with a restless spirit. As his fellow crewmembers had mingled with the crowd, signing autographs or accepting congratulations, he had strayed to the balcony in order to watch the unceasing waves of the Pacific Ocean lap up against the rocky shoreline far below. Funny how the world kept on turning and the tides kept rising regardless of what was transpiring in the heavens far above.

Jonathan had invited him to the 602 Club for a drink. He always went there during his Academy days, he said, in order to clear his head. While the offer was tempting, Trip knew that he wouldn't be much in the way of company. Just as he was thinking he would be alone for the evening at his post by the sea, an older couple approached him.

He should have known who they were immediately.

Their greetings were quiet and rushed, the niceties forgone for something of a bit more substantiality. Within moments, he has their address, and a worn house key pressed into his palm.

In a few days, they'll expect him at their guest house on the northern shores of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.

Trip's not usually one to accept such a favor, however forceful it might be, but one look at the intensity and emotion in their eyes and he decides that it would be unwise to refuse. Now, he's thinking about what the next week might hold and looking forward to dipping his toes in the sand for the first time in years.

It's well past sunset when a familiar form steps out of the shadows, clad in little more than an inky blue sundress and a shawl drawn tight over her shoulders. It's Hoshi, dressed for leisure, and she's clearly been drawn back down to the surface by Trip's failure to meet her for their standing dinner date.

If anyone comes close to sympathizing with Tucker's plight, it's Hoshi. She's had her fair share of long nights in the map room, and was even held captive and tortured by the Xindi for some time. And while she's not quite in the position to offer solace to his troubled soul, she can at least emerge from these trials with him.

"I was getting worried," she says, leaning up against the railing next to him.

"You shouldn't have," he mumbles, before reaching over to squeeze his friend's hand. Over the past two and a half years, they've grown inexplicably closer, drawn together by the need to share their burdens with someone else.

"That hasn't stopped me before," she replies, "Come back aboard. You can get a good night of sleep for the first time in months." Hoshi smiles tenderly. Like her, he's also been suffering from frequent bouts of insomnia. Tonight, as in many other nights, sleep will prove inescapable. He's going to be trapped inside his head, mulling over this strange new idea until he eventually convinces himself not to go through with it.

And that's why, at that moment, Trip Tucker decides to go all in.

"I want you to come with me on shore leave."

The invitation is decidedly sudden, so she can't help but hesitate. "Where?"

"North Carolina. I've been there once or twice since I was a teenager. Beautiful beaches, great night life. I'm sure you'd love it."

The idea of spending a week alone with a man she's not currently in a relationship with seems… _intimate_. But she does trust Trip, and after weeks of anticipating and plotting her every next move, she's ready to jump into something unexpected.

"I'll be there."

Trip is taken aback. Obviously, he didn't expect her to buy into the idea so quickly. Recovering speedily, he says, "Great. I'll arrange a transport for tomorrow-aw, _hell_ , why not bright and early? Say seven-ish? Meet me at the Sausalito terminal station."

She turns to leave, mumbling something about needing to pack her bags, but stops in her tracks. "Trip, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course you can." He finds it ludicrous that she even feels like she has to ask.

"Why North Carolina?"

A lump rises in his throat. He's not about to let Hoshi in on the real circumstances behind his decision, and he's certainly not going to let her know that he's still consumed by thoughts of a crewman that died months ago. But the simplest answer is usually the best one, so he only asks, "Why not?"

She ponders this, her tongue working in her cheek. Seconds later, she shrugs with amusement and begins to make her way back to the shuttlepod, her steps now a thousand times more purposeful.

-0-

T'Pol returns to her quarters on the first transport back to Enterprise, her eyebrows furrowed together and her posture that of an individual deep in thought.

Her days of shore leave were spoken for, as her mother would be expecting her at the ancestral home on the outskirts of Shi'Kahr within the conclusion of the following day. They had many important matters to discuss, matters she could not conceivably evade for much longer.

And that's why she had called for him. She needed a distraction, someone who could guard her virtue, someone who she had no immediate attachment to.

Well, that final part might have been a bit of a stretch.

Ever since her poorly advised sexual encounter with Commander Tucker, she had had a great deal of time to think. It was her Trellium addiction that had caused her to have a passing infatuation with the Chief Engineer. And while she did care for him, it was in a way that a sister might. Although T'Pol did not have any siblings of her own, she had read enough literature on the subject of familial relations to know that this was the most accurate comparison.

She had been jealous of the way Tucker had looked at Corporal Cole, how he had doted on her and provided her an undue amount of attention. The more she pondered this, the more confident she became that was she had desired was not Tucker, but the emotional security that came with having someone that cared for you.

Once T'Pol had separated her rash impulses from her true desires, it was only a matter of choosing the most likely candidate. Really, there was no comparison.

He had shaken her from her haze mid-battle, guiding her in the right direction that displayed his want to do good for both the crew and his people. Later, he had rightfully expressed concern for her during a damage report that evening when they had still been convinced that all was lost. Yes, even in the face of tragedy, he had proven to have maintained his morality.

She wasn't surprised when the door chime sounded precisely on schedule. Lieutenant Reed was nothing if not punctual. He enters a few seconds later, stepping into the room as if it were a minefield that might explode at any moment.

T'Pol is tempted to tell him to stand at ease, but they are not on duty. If she wants to foster anything more than a working relationship with this man, she's going to have to go about it in a more subtle manner.

"You wanted to see me, Commander?"

She flinches at his consistent assertion of propriety, but says nothing of it. "I understand that you were selected for shore leave for the next ten days."

Malcolm is confused. Everyone knew that; the crew manifests were posted all over the ship for all to see. But because he wishes to dispel the tremulous sense of unease in the room, he decides to confide in her. "I offered to stay aboard and supervise crucial upgrades to command systems, but Captain Archer suggested not so subtly that I take a break."

So it had indeed been more like an order. She raises a brow, pretending that this is the first time she's heard this information. "This is surprising, considering how your last turn of shore leave resulted in such shameless acts of debauchery."

She silently kicks herself for bringing it up, but it escapes from her mouth before she can stop it. There's something about this man that always sets her on edge. Perhaps it is in the way that he is stoic, but not in the same way she is. Malcolm's wound up every second of the day, something she finds eerily familiar.

He's not about to argue that. Thanks to several gossipmongers aboard that preferred to remain nameless— _Hoshi_ -everyone had learned about his and Trip's run in with the shapeshifters within the week it had happened. It had taken months—nay, a year—for him to feel as if he had sufficiently regained enough face around the crew.

Malcolm opts for the conversational route. Cautiously, he asks, "What are your plans?"

"I'll be returning to Vulcan and staying in my mother's home. It will be… _pleasant_ …to see her again," she pauses, before picking up on the obvious social clue that the correct response would be to ask him the same question. "And you?"

"To be honest, I'm not quite sure." Reed's a little more comfortable now, leaning against her cabinet and crossing his legs. What he doesn't say, though, it that his father had relayed to him in no uncertain terms that he wouldn't be welcome at his home were he to come back to Britain. But that was a concern for another time.

T'Pol hesitates. "If you would prefer, you could stay in the guest room of my family's home."

To say that he had been taken aback by the invitation would be an understatement. The gears in his head begin to turn as he formulates the most even keeled response to that, but she beats him to the punch. "Need I remind you, Lieutenant, that it is very important as an officer to be familiar with alien cultures. From what you have relayed to your peers, I understand that you have never been to Vulcan."

She turns to him, and in that moment something nearly indiscernible flashes in her eyes. Could that be… _expectation_?

"How will you introduce me?" Surely she's never mentioned him in her increasingly sparing letters home.

Her head tilts to one side. "A valued colleague."

The science officer's expression is now imploring. The last time Malcolm saw her this vulnerable, the world was crashing in around them. His internal desire to protect and to serve tells him that he can't possibly disappoint her. Besides, how bad could it be to spend shore leave in the company of one of the most flawlessly beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on?

"I suppose I could see the sights," he says casually, although he's never been one for idle tourist activities.

T'Pol returns to her chest of drawers. "The transport leaves at eleven hundred hours." It's about as profound of a hint that he's ever going to get.

It's very near midnight. Nodding briskly, he replies, "I'd better pack by bags."

Because her back is turned to him, T'Pol doesn't notice how a boyish smirk crosses his face as he steps into the corridor.

 _(to be continued)_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Glad to see that everyone's so enthusiastic about where this is heading! I'll try not to disappoint any of you.

Yes, I have been to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, twice in fact, once when I was five and again when I was twelve. Visiting the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse was one of my earliest memories. I anticipate Troshi visiting that particular locale, as well as the Monument to a Century of Flight. I shall have to employ my imagination to develop that another one hundred and fifty years.

 **Haven**

 **Chapter Two**

The blinding light of midmorning was the first thing to greet the pair as they exited the transport. Hoshi was the first to reach the loading platform, slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder and forcing her way through the milling crowd of people.

On the journey there, which had mostly been spent in silence, she had relayed to Trip how long she had waited to seize the opportunity to relax. Even on Risa, she had primarily concerned herself in the immersion of the native language…and a few other things that she was _ever_ so careful not to mention around him.

Trip followed her seconds later and almost immediately lost her in the throng of their fellow travelers. Finally, he spotted a familiar white blouse, and grabbed on to her arm.

She stopped in her tracks and looked over her shoulder with consternation. To her enthusiasm, Trip said, "Hey, what's the big hurry?"

The woman produced her personal PADD from the front pocket of her bag and turned on the screen, immensely glad that he had asked. Immediately, Hoshi began to rattle off a list of items that sounded suspiciously like a finely curated itinerary.

"You stop that," he swiped the device from her. "We're here to relax and have fun, and we're sure as hell not gonna even do that if we follow a schedule."

The linear thinking portion of Hoshi's mind protested this, so it was not without a pout that she looped her arm through Trip's and proceeded with him down the boardwalk.

-0-

It was safe to say that Malcolm Reed had never seen a view like this in all of his thirty one years.

He and T'Pol had arrived in the late afternoon, just as the sky began to shift in color from a sienna to a darker, richer burgundy. The twin moons of Vulcan were just at the horizon, their light casting great shifting beams over the skyline. Although he had never been a man to spend great deals of time admiring aesthetics, he had to admit that out of all the alien worlds he had visited, this one was the most beautiful.

Shi'Kahr, unlike any large city he had ever been to, was largely quiet on the street. Raven haired Vulcans dressed in muted earth tones strode briskly between the buildings, their heads down or otherwise buried in some reading material. Those who traveled together conversed quietly, and did not spare him even the briefest of disdainful looks as he walked past.

T'Pol was in quite the hurry. Her behavior aboard the transport had been anxious and standoffish, even for her. He remained a respectful three paces behind her to give her some distance as she mulled over whatever was causing her strife. As they neared their destination, he could only feel her becoming more apprehensive.

His companion's ancestral home was built into the side of a broad plateau overlooking the suburbs of the metropolis at some distance. As they crested the hill, he noticed her shift her bag from one shoulder to the other and grimace.

He was there in an instant, relieving her of her burden and tucking it under his arm. T'Pol stopped abruptly, giving him a look of thinly veiled surprise. He only shrugged, as if to brush off the action to an illogical human platitude, then began to walk abreast of her.

Just as he was beginning to struggle under the weight, the pair reached a courtyard secured by a heavy metallic door. T'Pol paused to look back at him, as if to say, _you'd better be paying attention_ , before leaning her entire frame against it and pushing the barrier open.

Where Malcolm had anticipated to see a garden, he was greeted by the sight of a few manicured trees. In the middle of the courtyard, a round vessel spurted water from its top, repeatedly covering the sun baked pottery with moisture. He could imagine that on a desert world a fountain would come at some expense to maintain. It did not escape him that T'Pol's family, were they human, might be referred to as well to do.

"So this is where you grew up," he found himself mumbling, expecting those words to fly directly under her radar. "It's beautiful." In his mind's eye, he pictured him childhood home. The flat on the north end of London was classically handsome, but the memories that were attached to it over the course of eighteen painful years were not.

Something passed over her face, an expression of deep satisfaction that all this time she had been hiding. "Such an atmosphere was not a disagreeable to my formative years."

He's about to speak again, perhaps in the vein of another vague compliment, when an elegant stranger sweeps into the courtyard.

The elder Vulcan lady wears her age with pride, whatever it might be. Her gait is upright and she points her nose to the heavens, pinning down Malcolm and T'Pol with a glare of discernment. A striking pair of blue eyes meet his only briefly, then focus on the younger woman before her.

"You did not tell me you were bringing a guest," she admonishes the science officer. With limited powers of deduction, Malcolm assumes that this is the matriarch of the household, T'Les. He's only heard T'Pol speak that name twice, one of those times being on the transport to their current location.

"Mother, you're home!" She tries desperately to match her even tone, but the surprise in her voice is easily betrayed.

The other woman spares a glimpse at Malcolm, seemingly marveling at how incredibly asinine she finds that question. "Obviously. It is agreeable to see you again. You appear…"

T'Les trails off, taking in her daughter's pained expression. Finally, she utters a single Vulcan word that he doesn't recognize, but he would bet money on its meaning.

At his companion's startled reaction, the Brit decides to intervene. Bowing his head slightly so as not to appear challenging, he says, "Hello, madam. I'm Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. It is agreeable to make your acquaintance." Then, in flawless imitation of the gesture that Hoshi had taught him months ago, he raises his hand in a _ta'al_.

She's surprised by his subservient greeting and seemingly innocent demeanor, but repeats the performance. T'Les opens her mouth to speak to her daughter, and by the glint in her eye he can tell it's about to be something callous.

"I hope that I am not imposing. I was assigned to shore leave and would prefer to spend the time enriching my mind by seeing the sights of another world," he assures her, and it's not entirely a falsehood. However, she appears stunned at his gall to interrupt her.

T'Pol takes the lead at that moment, her shoulders falling in a display of her gratitude. "Mr. Reed is Enterprise's security officer, mother, and it would be improper to refuse him hospitality."

She makes a sound low in her throat, and for a moment it would seem that she's about to turn him away. But then she acquiesces, "Yes, I do suppose it would."

With a sweeping arm, she welcomes him into the foyer. The décor is modest, yet rich with expression; somewhere deep within him, Malcolm's martial sensibilities find comfort in this. He listens carefully as T'Les gives him directions to the guest chambers on the south end of the home.

However, just as soon as he exits the room, he hears the women begin to speak in hushed voices. It seemed a constant throughout the universe that families once reunited tended to bicker. Against his better judgment, thinking it may help him understand just what he's gotten himself into, he hangs back.

"It's not yet midday. Why are you not at the Science Academy?" That explains where his superior had inherited her supremely analytical mind.

"I'm no longer an instructor there," T'Les replies.

From the silence that follows, he can tell that T'Pol is taken aback by this. The two women go on to discuss communication difficulties they had experienced in the Expanse. To Malcolm, this had been a godsend, for it had meant that he wouldn't have had to reach out to his family. It seemed, though, that their time off the grid had caused a fundamental loss of understanding between them.

"I don't know why you're surprised. This was planned years ago." He's doubtful of this. T'Les, for her advanced age, does not seem old enough to retire.

"There's more to life that one's profession," she continues, causing him nearly to snort. He had spent the past ten years absorbed in his work, and found that it rewarded and contented him to no foreseeable end. He suspected that this was true for most scientists. Perhaps T'Les hadn't truly enjoyed her line of work, or perhaps an external force had pushed her out.

"This arrived for you yesterday." Hearing the volume of their voices decrease, he assumed they were walking towards the front of the room.

A rustling of paper followed, then T'Pol confirmed in a way that was most likely rhetorical, "It's from Koss."

"Did you believe he had forgotten you?" Her mother demanded, before pressing her to respond to the message.

From the clipped nature of her words, Malcolm could tell that T'Pol was agitated. After over two years of working with a superior whose mood could only be discerned from the most subtle of clues, he could read her like a book. And he suspected that she could do the same for him.

She protested that she had nothing to say to his man, this Koss, before T'Les interjected with some exasperation, "He's your fiancée!"

 _What was that?_ He leaned in suddenly and almost tumbled forward under the weight of the bags he was carrying. The two women startled, but were too absorbed in their conversation to investigate. To think that he was this close to cursing the superior hearing abilities of a Vulcan to high heaven.

"Not anymore," T'Pol said with a hint of malice.

"That remains to be seen. You will reach out to him if you are wise. More depends on this union than you know."

From the sound of her heavy boots on the ceramic tiles, he could tell that she had no desire to think on the notion any more. His stomach dropped when he realized that she was heading directly towards him. Turning and hoisting the Fleet issued duffels over his shoulder, Malcolm high tailed it down the hallway before any suspicion could be raised.

Regarding his many escapades with Trip, he knew that curiosity often lead him into trouble, but he made a mental resolution nonetheless. What he was about to do was incredibly meddlesome. Truth be told, Malcolm didn't know why he felt compelled to do it. He tried to tell himself that it might be a matter of the ship's security, but that was a lost cause if there had ever been one. Most likely, he wouldn't be able to help the situation, and if worst came to worst, he could be thrusting himself into some very personal matters indeed. But his professional attachment to T'Pol told him that he had to do something to assuage his interest.

It was time to visit the archives of the most secure personnel database he could get his hands on.

-0-

Tucker had just finished stuffing the chest of drawers in the upstairs bedroom of the vacation home when he was struck with a very appealing idea indeed. Crossing the room, he threw up the sash and inhaled the salty ocean air through the window.

The modest pad that the older couple had promised him had turned out to be pretty damn near the size of a mansion. Mounted on a series of stilts, it was built in the late colonial style. The main frame was a robin's egg blue, and every other shutter or major accent was a different contrasting pastel color. From the very look of it, a southern woman's touch had been all over it.

A set of steep stairs led the pair up to the front door. Having grown up in the panhandle of Florida, he understood why. In the late summer and early autumn in the days before the biggest advancements in civil engineering, a home and everything a family owned could be swept away in a hurricane's winds.

There were not gale forces to greet them that afternoon, only the gentle sway of a wooden swing on the porch and the tinkling of an ancient wind chime. With some enthusiasm, Hoshi swept through the house, pausing every so often to admire some obscure detail of its design. Of course, the impromptu tour was not completed without a few off color metaphors and personal anecdotes from Tucker. Finally, reaching the upstairs, his lady friend had claimed the bedroom facing west, citing the inability to sleep when sunlight streamed through her window in the early morning. And he was only too glad to settle down in the room of his choice.

It was getting late. The two had spent some time on the boardwalk, milling between the ice cream parlors and souvenir shops of any beachside town, before retiring to what would be their residence for the next ten days. Truth be told, the biggest concern on Trip's mind at the moment was what takeout he would bring back when he would make the trek into town for their impromptu dinner. His experience in the expanse and even the events of the past few weeks had left him wanting to sleep for a year.

Suddenly, he heard his name called from the sand far below. Squinting to identify the figure who had done it, he discovered that the voice had belonged to none other than Hoshi Sato.

It seemed that his friend had already changed into her bathing suit and a loose fitting sarong and was now proceeding to whoop and holler up the entire coastline before the house. And she obviously wanted him to join her.

He hated to admit it, but her enthusiasm was infectious. Giving her a thumbs up, Trip disappeared below the line of the window to root around in the drawers for his swim trunks.

 _(to be continued)_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Now we're cooking. Next time: a supremely awkward encounter in the library and Troshi visits the Monument to a Century of Flight.

Just a reminder that this fic is rather T for foul language and (eventually) sexual content. Kisses to all of the new followers and commenters. It really encourages me to see such a strong response to my story.

 **Haven**

 **Chapter Three**

Trip Tucker awoke to a particular feeling that he knew he had not experienced in quite some time. It had been the first night in a while that any variety of pesky nightmare had not plagued him. Instead, he came to consciousness as a singular beam of light cut through the folds in the curtains and landed lengthwise across his cheek.

His eyes fluttered open, and for once he does not feel a familiar ache in his bones. Sure, he's tired from last night's activities, but as of yet there is not even a smidge of despondence to weight him down.

Bounding down the steps and into the sand, he was greeted by a beaming Hoshi. He had expected them to run headfirst into the water, maybe float around on their backs in the salty brine and let relaxation come to them. Instead, she had produced a small plastic pail and shovel.

They had brainstormed for a while as to the nature of their sandcastle. Trip had wanted to start small, perhaps a simple A frame, but she had quickly turned that down. After all, this promised to be the most exciting vacation she'd ever been on; shouldn't the design reflect that?

Using their fingers to compact the sand in triangular shapes, the pair proceeded to form a miniature pagoda. Hoshi explained that before she left for the Academy, she had taken in a service at one of the oldest structures in all of Japan. The _To-ji_ temple had been a Buddhist congregation since the late eighth century, and she had relished the opportunity to embrace the traditions of her people. You see, conforming to custom couldn't be entirely disagreeable, especially if a symbol of such an order could have endured over one thousand years.

Approaching the window he had used to gaze out over the ocean, he saw that as the tide had risen, it had wiped away their masterpiece sometime in the night. Now _that_ was a pity.

He became aware of a familiar smell wafting up from the kitchen downstairs. Suddenly, he was back in his childhood home on a Saturday morning, and his mother was preparing breakfast for the family. There was bacon, eggs, and heaping platefuls of grits. As he bounded down the stairs, however, the ground fell away from his feet and everything went black.

Back in the realm of the living, Trip flinched. That had been a new one. Now that he had seen the destruction, had seen how the weapon had laid waste to the Florida coastline, he couldn't help but wonder if that was what Lizzie might have felt.

It was best not to dwell on those thoughts too much. Leaving his room, he clung to the railing as he carefully made his way down the staircase.

His friend, wearing a worn sweatshirt and athletic shorts, greeted him with a massive smile on her face. Before her was a paper sack full of food.

"I went ahead and had breakfast delivered, if you're hungry," she said, pulling her hair back in a ponytail.

"Is the pope Catholic?" Trip asked rhetorically, and then commenced tucking in to his meal.

While he was having a religious experience with the first southern cooked meal he'd had in months, Hoshi pulled a chair up to the island and placed her elbows on the granite countertop. She appeared to be deep in thought.

After a few minutes, during which she partook in several strips of bacon, she suggested, "I've been thinking. Because it's our first day, we should do something big. Let's go to the lighthouse up on Cape Hatteras."

Trip's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "Hoshi, that's over an hour away."

She shrugged, as if the distance didn't bother her. "I've seen pictures of it my entire life. Besides, I thought that the entire point of vacation was to try new things."

This was true. Some more minutes of silence passed between the two. "I guess we can rent a ground car."

Hoshi squealed suddenly, startling Trip. She threw her arms around his shoulders and gave him a quick hug. Extolling her enthusiasm and surety that they would just have a marvelous time, she proceeded to run upstairs to collect her shoes.

-0-

As much as Malcolm hated to admit it, he soon had to come to terms with the fact that this gentleman whom T'Pol was promised to be married off to had a squeaky clean reputation. Not a blip had shown up on Section 31's extensive database of operatives and sympathizers.

However, he did know by now that Vulcans, when committed to behaving badly, were some of the most sly and underhanded people in the galaxy. And that was how he found himself knelt beneath the covers, hacking through several layers of security protocol to reach a directory that his translator proclaimed to house the personal details of a number of members of the High Command's inner circle. Surely, if his companion's marriage were so urgent, this Koss must hold some degree of power.

Scrolling past several warnings that indicated that each consecutive data breach was punishable by up to five years in a penal colony, he found a search bar and entered the pertinent letters.

It appeared that Koss was a very popular name in this province. Refining the list by those who were employed by the Vulcan Academy of Sciences, he hoped he would get lucky.

After sifting through multiple entries with negligible success, he stumbled upon a biography of a possible candidate.

The man in question commanded an imposing figure, staring the camera down with his threateningly sober mug. Malcolm noted, quite objectively, that he was strikingly attractive. In his personal details, it said that he worked as an architect and taught introductory courses during the later sessions of the year. Further below, the profile of Administrator Havek, apparently his father, was linked, as well as several extended family members. He knew that because Vulcan was ruled by a series of clan relations and intermarriages, he just might get lucky.

At the bottom, somewhat tucked away in a corner, a header: "Betrothed 2093, Municipality of Shi'Kahr, to Lady T'Pol of the clan…"

 _What were the chances?_

As he emerged from under his blankets, he took the time to organize his thoughts. Yes, he had broken several laws to satisfy his curiosity on a matter he had really no business dealing with. There was no going back now. He could only complete the narrative for himself and in his mind and assist the best he could. And if he could not? Well, he had certainly spent his time doing worse things in the past.

Noting that it was now long past midnight, Malcolm rolled over and fell into a deep slumber.

-0-

He was awakened from his sleep by an intrusive noise, the steady, reverberating sound of a gong being struck. In his drowsy stupor, he thought to compare it to a clock tower announcing the hour underwater.

It was only seconds before his door opened and a sliver of light cut across the room. There T'Pol stood, immaculately dressed and not a hair out of place. And when she told him that it was 0400 hours, he had to suppress a groan.

"As guests, we're expected to prepare the morning meal," she informed him quietly as he pulled back the covers. Something indecipherable flashed behind her eyes when she saw that he had slept undressed to the undershirt and shorts.

He experienced a fleeting thought to complain, but knew from his years in the business of gathering information that this was no way to gain favors. "I'd be happy to."

"I'm afraid I must leave the home for a few hours this morning. As I am on my home world, I thought it to be appropriate that I meditate in one of this sector's most sacred temples."

Was she really suggesting that he be left home alone with T'Les? He thought of the older Vulcan woman, with her sharp tongue and quick judgments, and decided that she rather reminded him of his mother. "I understand, T'Pol. We all need to clear our heads sometimes."

He found it endearing how unwilling she was to admit she was having trouble, and relished the stunned expression when he called her by her given name. To his memory, this was the first time he had done so. And at that moment, he internally resolved to do it more often. Malcolm quite liked the way it rolled off of his tongue.

"I'll be just fine with your mother. I'm sure I will find her wisdom…quite stimulating."

-0-

"It's just as beautiful as I imagined," Hoshi marveled.

Trip echoed her sentiment as he locked the doors and joined her on the hood of the ground car. A soft breeze came from the direction of the ocean and brought with it the briny scent of the deep. The lighthouse, with its contrasting black and white stripes, stood resolute on a jagged outcropping of rocks. If he were prone to personification, he might say that it seemed lonely out there by itself now that it was not continually manned by a lighthouse master. He knew that the light had been maintained by electronic means since the mid twentieth century, and hadn't been inhabited since then. Hell, he wasn't sure that the ancient structure could hold the weight of a grown man after decades of suffering the elements.

His friend hummed under her breath. "If only we could go up there. I'm sure the view would be great."

Hoshi looked so forlorn that in that moment he was determined to make it happen. In the distance, he caught a glimpse of a man in a park ranger's uniform making his rounds. Waving his arms in the air, he attempted to wave him down.

Ignoring her shocked expression, he appropriated a shit eating grin that he thought might ingratiate himself to the ranger. However, as the man approached, he could see that he was worn down by age and circumstance, and didn't look like he'd seen a bright day in years.

It appeared that he had anticipated their question. Cutting Trip off before he could speak, he said, "Tours of the grounds don't start until nine."

"Well, that's fine, because we were actually here to see the view from above," he decided to go for the gusto.

The old man shook his head. "No one is allowed up in the light except for authorized park personnel. No exceptions."

Now he was kicking himself for not wearing his NX-01 track jacket or cap. Something, anything that might impress this man and give him and his friend special privileges. He opted for the less than honorable approach. "That's a pity, because this is the last vacation I've got with my fiancée before we're both deployed."

Trip wrapped his arm around Hoshi's waist and was grateful that she bought into the act and snuggled against him.

He looked doubtful. "Really? What branch of the forces?"

"Army," Trip said, at the same time Hoshi blurted out, "Navy!"

"You see, that's the problem. We're gonna be on opposite sides of the continent. Hell of a thing, for a man to be separated from his girl because they took different creeds of service." His chances of convincing the ranger were slipping away, and he could see it.

He hemmed and hawed over the matter for a while. It was highly likely that these young people were not telling the truth, but if they were he would lose out majorly on karma points. Finally, reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a massive ring of keys.

He held one upright and Trip accepted it. "Fine. Run on up there, but don't be long. Be careful of the staircase."

"Thank you, sir!" Hoshi cried. The pair clasped hands and began to run along the beach, perhaps to give themselves more distance between the park ranger and them…just in case he changed his mind.

While Trip jimmied with the cumbersome lock, Hoshi mumbled, "This is just like the time with those Ferengi pirates…"

"Shut up, you." At last she succeeded in opening the door and allowed her to enter first.

The interior was made of white brick and alternating wood paneling. Framed pictures of lighthouse keepers past lined the foyer, as well as black and white photographs of ships coming into port. Trip wasn't as interested in nautical history as his friend Malcolm Reed, but he still lingered around the prints for quite some time.

Behind him, he heard heavy feet striking the steps as Hoshi dashed up the staircase. Clearly, her visit here was linear in its intent.

Sighing, he followed her up to the control room. What he saw took his breath away.

The curved windows allowed them to see a minimum of ten miles out to sea. Watching how the waves shifted and churned with not a hint of their clamor reaching their height, he felt at peace. No matter how hectic life got, he decided that he must be as firm as the lady that had kept her watch over the Atlantic for upwards of three hundred years.

"It was worth it, wasn't it?" Hoshi asked smugly.

He didn't respond, but moved to encircle her waist with his arms.

She relaxed into his embrace, but didn't hesitate to remind him, "Trip, the jig is up." She referred to the ruse they had enacted against the park ranger.

"I know." In his place, he felt so blissfully happy that he just had to press a chaste kiss to her temple. The pair passed a few peaceful moments thusly.

From far below, the front door slammed shut. A gruff voice called out, "Come on down, lovebirds! My boss just pulled up!"

They jolted apart, embarrassed even though they hadn't been caught in the act of anything incriminating. Trip reached the door to the staircase and gave the jamb a healthy tug. To his surprise, the doorknob came off its hinge into his hands.

Hoshi froze. She hissed, "You broke the lighthouse!"

"I didn't break it!" He protested. "I'm an engineer, I can fix this!" He proceeded to twist the knob this way and that.

She suddenly affected a devilish look in her eye. "I'm going to tell the ranger." In his panicked state, Trip didn't manage to pick up on the fact that she was teasing. His heart dropped into his stomach to see her disappear around the curve of the staircase.

It took quite a bit of coercion and sheer genius under pressure, but he finally managed to affix the doorknob back in its socket. Then, like the devil himself was on his tail, Trip dashed down the stairs.

Hoshi was waiting for him at the ground car doubled over in laughter. Pointing at him, she cried, "You should have seen your face!"

"Goddamn it, Hosh," he wheezed, hands on his knees. "Don't you ever scare me like that again."

"Commander Trip Tucker, a grown man by all accounts, still scared by people in minor positions of authority," she noted as she settled into the passenger seat.

He grumbled at the indignance of it all. As they turned off of the gravel road and onto a paved thoroughfare, he waved a finger at her in chastisement. "You'd better watch your ass, Sato, because I'll be coming after you the first time you turn your back."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, you can see that I'm shaking in my boots."

-0-

"Tell me about yourself, Mr. Reed," T'Les prompted, but the sharpness of her tone made it sound like a demand.

Malcolm couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at the stilted attempt at conversation. If he closed his eyes, he might as well have been talking to one of the ladies in his mother's bridge club. But this was entirely different. _Treacherous_ , even.

He knew from his impromptu research that meals on Vulcan were typically conducted in silence, but decided that he would not deny his host what she wanted. "I'm the armory officer aboard the _Enterprise_ , ma'am. I make sure that the ship's arsenal is running in top condition should we ever find ourselves in the middle of a firefight."

She passed him an open bowl filled with slices of a fruit that reminded him of a cantaloupe. He nodded his gratitude rather than expressing it verbally, for he could surmise that she didn't like breath to be wasted on frivolous human customs.

"Surely this leaves you with plenty of free time." From the familiar way she made this statement, all the while bringing her cup of tea to her lips and glancing demurely over the rim, he knew that she was fishing for information.

So T'Les wanted to know what kind of a man he was. Honorable, dependable, trustworthy? Malcolm was hesitant to call himself _any_ of those things. "I do a bit of research. Target accuracy, missile potency, experiments to that end." He hoped the vague answer would satisfy her.

"Are these technologies reserved exclusively to the Earth fleet?" Her fingers tightened around the mug.

Now, why would she ask something like that? "I suppose not, ma'am. With the proper amount of training, I can guarantee that any one of our allies could use the weapons I develop. Even Vulcans."

She bristled at that. Standing, she swept several plates off the table and made her way to the open kitchen. "I doubt that the High Command would dither on that offer to use these methods on those who offended them."

Malcolm was confused. Hadn't she worked at the Academy, all the while being under the direct jurisdiction of the legislative body in question? Why would T'Les harbor such libelous sentiments?

"I would certainly hope not. The nature of warfare is to maintain one's own and only show the strength of your armaments when it is required as self-defense." He joined her at the sink.

The older woman clicked her tongue. "How enlightened of you, Mr. Reed. Our planet's preeminent philosopher, Surak, had such a viewpoint."

Reflexively, he lowered his shoulders. "I must confess, madam, I have never read his work."

T'Les seems surprised. "It would seem that my daughter will not be back until later in the morning. If it is agreeable to you, it would be my honor to escort my guest to the library at the Science Academy to witness some of Surak's wisdom firsthand."

This is what he had wanted all along. Funny how everything tended to fall into place once one stopped trying to fix the odds. Malcolm immediately agreed to her proposition.

As the Vulcan dried her hands on a washcloth, she mused, "Perhaps we might even be able to see some of these _sights_ you have spoken of."

He dipped his head graciously and moved off to his room. At the very least, he would be able to get out of the house, stifling as it was, for a few hours.

And if he had his druthers, he might even be able to find out a little more about this Koss fellow.

 _(to be continued)_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Here's where the real drama begins. Sorry about the Troshi confrontation in the rain; everyone has to indulge in their favorite cliches every one and awhile. Be forewarned that there is a lot of melodrama in this chapter. Probably a bit more than there should be. Also, I imagined the Monument itself forward another one hundred years. Right now, there is only one circle of stones, and the most recent event is in the 1970s. Because it was dedicated in 2003, I thought it plausible for it to have been remodeled a few times between now and the 2150s.

Next time: Fear not. Everything is not well on the eastern seaboard. Also, a heightened confrontation between T'Pol and her mother.

 **Haven**

 **Chapter Four**

The next morning dawned on the pair soon enough, bringing with it the promise of fog and precipitation.

From her brief survey of the local news sources, Hoshi determined that a tropical storm was rollicking its way up the Carolina coastline. Being mid-April, there was no humidity in the air, but a kind of cloying chill that had the ability to cut through layer upon layer of clothing. From the breadth of the swirl and its wide rotation, it was clear that once the rain started, it wouldn't let up for quite some time.

That was how the couple wound up at the Monument to a Century of Flight shortly after eight. Hoshi decided that there was no point wasting a perfectly good morning, especially when they could be shut up in the house for the better part of the weekend. Trip begrudgingly agreed with her assessment, although it meant getting up earlier than anyone on vacation should ever have to.

The monument was situated some distance from the town square. They had worried that it might be crowded on a holiday weekend, but as they approached the memorial, they could see that this would not be a problem.

A path of dark red bricks was the first clue that they were near to their destination. Farther ahead, Hoshi could see the photographs she had seen couldn't have possibly done the actual structure justice.

Two concentric circles of upright, oblong stones stood facing the center. On their flat sides were inscriptions celebrating the various achievements in flight and aeronautical technology over the past two hundred years. A heavy bronze dome was affixed in the middle, keeping silent watch over the rows of pylons. Altogether, the monument felt imposing due to its sheer size, yet oddly welcoming. From the anticipation on Trip's face, she could tell that he was as excited as she was to read about their predecessors in exploration.

She let go of his hand and went to read the inscription on the nearest stone. "In 1957, the Soviets launched the first artificial satellite, _Sputnik_ , into space," she read reverently. Even though the term was antiquated at best, she recognized the ancient reference to the Russian Federation. Over her shoulder, she called, "Hey, Trip! Wasn't one of the first intersystem cargo freighters named after that?"

It was the kind of thing Travis would know off the top of his head. She could see Trip in the next row, studying a stylistic interpretation of Zefram Cochrane's test flight of the _Phoenix_ , the first warp capable ship ever built by humans. The engineers aboard _Enterprise_ idolized Cochrane for his influential advancements. This much was clear by the installation of his portrait on the side of the reactor, just far away enough out of eyesight so it couldn't be seen upon entry. It had to be a shrine of sorts. Every time Hoshi was in Trip's domain, she noticed how every engineer tipped their head at the image as they passed.

He was engrossed in the text around the engraving, but nodded his head. Rolling her eyes, Hoshi moved on to the panel which memorialized Charles Lindbergh's solo flight across the Atlantic in 1927. He was handsome, in an All-American sort of way. His light eyes and windswept hair reminded her of Trip. Maybe the first Charles Tucker had been named after Lucky Lindy, all those years ago. She made a mental note to ask about that when the opportunity presented itself.

Trip had wandered some distance away from her. Hoshi knew that the North Carolina state legislature had ordered a remodeling of the monument only a year or so before to commemorate Enterprise's launch. Somewhere among the stones should be a listing of every single one of their names, along with an exaggerated portrait of the ship departing space dock.

She approached him, noticing how his shoulders had fallen and how he studied the rows of characters with despondence. Carefully, she peered over his shoulder to confirm her suspicions.

"Look, there's Captain Archer." Jonathan's name was at the very top, along with other influential leaders of the project. At the moment, Hoshi would have been willing to do anything to get Trip out of this eerie phase of inaction.

Suddenly he squatted, running his fingers over the panel that contained the ranks of junior officers. Condensation collected on his hand and ran down his wrist in rivulets, but he didn't seem to care. There, near the end, was a familiar name.

 _Jane Taylor, Crewman Second Class._

Just as soon as Hoshi's eyes landed on the name of the deceased engineer, Trip stood. Shaking her hand off his arm, he pushed past her and out of the center of the monument.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Home," he rasped, his eyes downcast. She knew that he had taken Taylor's death particularly well, but couldn't help but wonder why he was still so upset. It had been nearly six months.

Six months is a long time for anyone to carry such a burden.

Hoshi lifted the hood of her sweatshirt and began to jog after him.

-0-

Malcolm Reed trudged up the path to the home he was currently staying in, weighed down with heavy volumes of research and philosophical rhetoric. The library of the Academy of Sciences had been nothing like he expected. Knowing his technologically advanced the Vulcans were, even more so than his own people, he had assumed that their catalog would be largely digitalized.

How wrong he had been.

He should have known from the tasteful décor he encountered wherever he went on this blasted planet. The Vulcans valued old fashioned aesthetics. This included well maintained leather bound books by the droves.

In retrospect, he should have recognized how T'Les was testing him. On the public transit ride into the city, she had made subtle comments, little insinuations tailor made to insult his species, creed, and occupation as much as possible. She probably wanted to see if Terrans were as volatile as she had heard. Malcolm decided early on not to give her the satisfaction.

Most of the trip back had been spent in silence. He cracked open an anthology of Surak's teachings translated into standard English a few times. The dense prose swam before his eyes. It was as if he was back at boarding school, trying to make sense of Voltaire or Aristotle. _No_ , he decided, _the study of this material would have to be postponed to a later date._

When the trolley had dropped them off at the bottom of the hill, T'Les broached a subject that had probably been needling her ever since he arrived. In her loud clear voice, without a hint of hesitation, she had accused him of having romantic feelings towards her daughter.

Now _that_ was absurd. If there was anything between him and T'Pol, it was professional respect and nothing else. He began to walk faster when she had made that suggestion without the barest bones of a rebuttal. Sure, he found her beguiling, intelligent, and exotically beautiful, but that was it. _Wasn't it?_

The garden gates were wide open and he charged through them without a second thought. He had only taken a few steps before he collided headlong with some barrier.

It didn't occur to Malcolm that he may have bumped into a person. The books went flying, and he muttered some choice Anglo-Saxon curse words under his breath. Today was shaping up to be a terrible day. First the time spent with the worst host possible, then the impromptu work out, and now this clumsy mishap? He hadn't even gotten the opportunity to learn more about—

"Who are you?" The obstruction demanded. From his place among the bricks of the walkway, Malcolm could see an imposing figure glaring down at him.

He didn't know how to respond. Standing, he saw T'Pol appear at the man's elbow.

It appeared that whatever engagement to meditate she was supposed to have this morning had been forgotten. Nevertheless, she came to his rescue, seeing as he was flustered beyond belief to see the gentleman from his research standing before him. "This is Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, the chief armory officer aboard the _Enterprise_. Mr. Reed, this is—"

"You serve with him aboard the human ship?" He asked incredulously, towering over her. She stepped away quickly, nodding. "What is he doing here?"

There was no need for T'Pol to complete her sentence, as Malcolm already knew who this man was. And now that he had returned from his outing, he could see that his presence was about to complicate things any further.

"I'm on shore leave, the very same as your betrothed," he replied sharply, then immediately wished that he could take it back. T'Pol's eyes widened in shock, for she hadn't wanted him to know the particulars of her strife. But he didn't like this Koss, he didn't like the way he spoke, and he sure as hell didn't like how territorial he seemed over the object of his misguided affections.

"So you share our ways with the humans. And, what's more, you've ingratiated yourself to this one," Koss addressed her with disdain. "Is this man to be my challenger?"

At that moment, T'Les appeared over the crest of the hill. Noticing the trouble brewing, she threw herself into the confrontation. "Koss! How agreeable it is to see you again!"

The three young people froze in their tracks. This was no time for pleasantries. Malcolm could see the hurt in Koss's eyes and cursed himself for his bad timing. Their encounter had more than likely been civil until he had shown up.

"My father will be hearing of this disgrace," he threatened, then stormed past T'Les and onto the path.

The older Vulcan woman looked as if she wanted to call after her daughter's betrothed, to say that she hadn't known they'd have a guest, that his presence at the home wasn't a peril in the slightest, but decided not to waste her breath. She turned, addressing her daughter sharply in their mother tongue, then proceeded into the house.

This left Malcolm and T'Pol in the garden with nowhere else to go. When he turned his back to her, seeking some sort of escape from the emotional tension in the immediate area, she said, "He was here to speak of the impending nuptials."

"And you don't want that," he assumed. In his place, Malcolm was infinitely glad that she hadn't chosen to ask how he knew of her betrothal. There was no way in heaven, hell, or any other alternate dimension he could talk his way out of that one.

T'Pol shook her head, sinking down to sit on a concrete bench. "I tried to tell him that I am ill, that I have prior commitments, but his father is a man of great influence."

The administrator. While he listened to her explain, he wondered if there might be some truth to some of her falsehoods. If his superior was ill, that would explain her behavior in the expanse. And if that explained her behavior then, he had no excuse for his inexplicable attraction to her, other than—

"They believe in the old ways, as my mother does," she continued, opening her eyes to see him crouched before her. And whatever emotion lay behind his eyes was so compelling that she couldn't bear to keep the truth from him. "He told me that my mother has not retired from her career at the Academy, but was asked to resign. If I were to marry him, he could have her reinstated."

"That's blackmail," Malcolm stated dumbly, taken aback by Koss's boldness. If T'Les had been asked to resign, it was mostly likely due to involvement in counterrevolutionary or other activities considered unsavory to the High Command. With her conviction and sharp tongue, it would not be a surprise.

She looked away from him. "He said he wanted me to be happy."

Malcolm stood and began to pace, a habit of his whenever he was in deep thought. He didn't know all of the details yet, but it seemed to him that T'Pol had two options: marry the bastard, give her mother back her career, and live the rest of her days in misery; or forsake the traditions of her people, return to _Enterprise_ , and risk the dishonor of her family. It was a situation that most likely wouldn't resolve on its own.

"What do you need me to do?" His question was sincere. Over the past two years, he had started to trust fate and destiny's impact on his choices. Now he knew why he had felt compelled to accept T'Pol's offer to accompany her on shore leave.

She shook her head. "This is none of your concern."

He grimaced. "Maybe you would have been able to use that excuse an hour ago, but that no longer applies. Why did you ask me to come here? Was it because you thought I could help you?"

Silence. At last, he had touched on the one matter she could not explain away. It would sound ridiculous if she were to utter the reason she knew in her heart to be true.

"That's it, isn't it?" Malcolm sat beside her. "If it is, you have to tell me. I'm not going to run the gauntlet with you for so long until you prove that I don't care enough to stay. Whether you like it or not, this isn't just a dispute between families anymore."

T'Pol knew he was right. Of course he was. Because for whatever damage she hid within herself, he was all controlled chaos and careful planning and distinctive actions. They could work together to fix this. And she didn't care to think of what could happen next, so as long as she could get rid of the oppressive black cloud that had been hanging over her head since she was deployed on _Enterprise_.

She knew that humans responded to touch, so that is what she did. Malcolm flinched when he felt her hand slip into his much larger one, but soon closed his fingers around her palm. He finally knew what he had to do.

"I'm going to fight for you."

-0-

Hoshi dashed up the steps to the home just as Trip exited around the side door. Her hand frozen on the doorknob, she took a moment to catch her breath. Heavy cumulus clouds hanging far above had only begun to spit out fat raindrops. Any moment now, the sky could unleash a deluge.

Digging her hands in her pockets, she began to follow him.

Trip's path was erratic, dodging between other properties and beach front shops. His steps hit a steady rhythm against the pavement. When she was in earshot, she called out his name.

If there was one thing that annoyed Hoshi, it was being ignored. The boardwalk was nearly empty, so she decided to try a different approach. "What are you running from?" That was the question of the hour, in the literal and figurative sense.

She lost sight of him for a few seconds, but as she turned a corner, there he was. He had stopped stock still in the middle of the walkway, his face sticky with perspiration and chest heaving.

"I couldn't save her," he lamented. "I couldn't save _any_ of them."

Hoshi was incredulous. "You're right, there's no way you could have."

Trip clasped his palms to his temples while he thought of a way he could express the hurt he felt inside. "She was so young, so excited about her work! And— _oh my God_ —her eyes would just light up when I asked her to do something! There was never a no sir, that's impossible, sir…"

Tears teased themselves at the corners of his eyes. It was only a matter of time before the man would begin to weep for his lost companions. "And Galdamez! He was loud as hell, but beta shift was always cheerful with him around! He lived across the hall from Jane. They both died where they laid their heads at night. It wasn't fair, and I tell myself that it should have been me, but then who would have been around to write letters home to their parents?"

He laughed, a cold, emotionless bark. "But no one understands how I feel about this, because everyone—Malcolm, Travis, hell, even _you_ —must value a human life less than I do."

Hoshi was full of such immense anger at that moment, she had to act. Pulling her arm back like she was about to pitch a no hitter, she slapped him across the face.

He stumbled back, clutching his nose. But she was far from done. "How dare you assume that I don't give a damn about the people we lost! If you can't bring yourself to remember, we lost at least one person in every department. Sure, I mourned, but I didn't let it affect my work!"

It was almost like she hadn't had the time to do so. Shortly after the attack, she was captured by the Xindi and tortured for information. And when her ship had returned to retrieve her, she found herself working hours on end to decipher the weapon's launch codes. The consequences, had she allowed herself time to wallow in her despair, could have been dire.

It was raining steadily now, and Hoshi felt that there wasn't much left to say that could adequately express how she felt. So she opted for the most effectual conclusion. "Your sister wouldn't have wanted this, Trip."

And he knew she was right.

-0-

A while later, Tucker was curled up on the couch, an ice pack pressed to his swollen nose. After scanning it with her PADD to assure it wasn't broken, Hoshi had located some towels in the hall closet and laid them across the cushion lengthwise so they might have a place to sit.

She entered from the kitchen, holding two hot mugs of tea. He had protested the idea of the beverage—wet tree leaves, he called it—but had accepted her offer of something warm.

Rain pounded steadily on the windows. After placing their cups on the coffee table, Hoshi walked around the room, lighting the candles that had been left there. As if there was really a need for ambiance at a time like this, Trip thought.

Eventually, Hoshi finished with that and sat next to him. Gently, she pushed his hands away and prodded at his nose. "Does that hurt?"

"Yes, but a world of a lot less now," he took a sip of the tea, to please her if nothing else.

"I'm sorry I did that," she mumbled, although she really wasn't.

Trip couldn't believe that she was beating herself up over this. If anyone, he should be the one to feel bad. The road to recovery would be long, but necessary. "It's alright, Hosh. I feel like I'm beginning to see things a lot more clearly now."

She sat up on her haunches, looking for something reflective. Thankfully, the coasters were made of smooth, convex glass. Hoshi held it up and peered into it. "What about now?"

The way that she could joke and act almost like a child set him at ease. Carefully, he pulled her into his chest and waited for her to lift her face upwards. Once she did, he asked her, "And how about you?"

Their first kiss is soft and breathless. When they separate, she's quick to initiate another one.

After a fourth and a fifth, Hoshi cuts to the chase and climbs into his lap. He's only too eager to let her. It's only when he feels her slim fingers teasing their way under the hem of his shirt and up his abdomen that Trip stops her.

"Are you sure you want this?"

In the candlelight, he notices everything. Her raven hair, now halfway dry, sticks out at odd angles. Her tank top has slipped off one shoulder, revealing an endless expanse of ivory skin. And while her eyes are heavily lidded and dark with passion, he can see the amusement there.

Hoshi thinks it's a ridiculous question. After all they've been through, should they not have expected it to come down to this?

She doesn't bother to answer him. She only draws him into the depths once more, this time to drown.

 _(to be continued)_


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Obviously I can't say much for consistency of chapter lengths. I've had a lot of time to write these past few days. My last final is done, which means I'm set to graduate high school in three days!

For those of you who are wondering, I'm going to leave Jon and Erika alone in this fic. My beta BonesBird would probably murder me if I did not. I'm projecting ten chapters at this point, twelve at the most.

I get many ideas for word and stylistic choices from my fellow writers, so it's my honor to choose my personal fic of the week to be Pennyforum's _Balcony Scene_. Yes, TR shippers, I'm throwing you a bone here, because it's one of the best little interludes for that pairing I've ever read.

Next time: _Kal-if-fee_ preparations on both sides. Hella Troshi angst coming at you in the next week. In the words of Stanley Tucci in the perennial classic _The Devil Wears Prada_ : Gird your loins!

 **Haven**

 **Chapter Five**

Hoshi awoke well past midnight to a low rumbling outside. Her eyes flickered open. For a few drowsy moments she watched the lightning play tricks on the ceiling.

After she and Trip had made love, she had fallen asleep in his arms on the couch, amidst piles of blankets and pillows. He had been oddly silent after the deed had been done; even as she nuzzled up to him and purred in his ear, he said nothing. She had taken it for a flight of masculine pride. But now, she could see that this was not the case.

Craning her neck, she could see her suitcase ajar and shoved into the corner. This was one of the upstairs guest rooms, certainly not where she had been earlier in the evening. Her bathrobe, which had been slung over the bedpost, had been wrapped around her midsection with haste. And, reaching out with her arms, she could not feel a warm body on either side of her.

Her heart leapt to her throat, and suddenly she could sense that something was very, _very_ wrong. She'd learned to trust her intuition in situations like this. Standing and knotting the robe at her waist, she padded out of the room in bare feet.

She hadn't had the chance to appreciate how massive the home truly was until she'd walked from room to room looking for him. In the other guest room, she noticed that several drawers were thrown open and his shoes were missing from the foot of the bed. Even the candles had been extinguished in the sitting room.

Finally, Hoshi approached the glass doors which led out to the terrace on the opposite end of the house. The sound of the rain pounding against them was deafening. Without any hesitation at all, she pushed open the doors and stepped out into the deluge.

It had to be close to dawn, but the sky was a sickly, inky black. A bolt of lightning struck nearby, shaking the ground with its might. Pulling the robe closer towards her, Hoshi called out his name helplessly.

The storm was so loud that she was sure no one could hear her. But she had to try. Trip could be anywhere, doing anything. And, frankly, with his volatile mood as of late, that scared her.

-0-

T'Pol found her mother in one of the exterior atriums. She had assumed a meditative position at the foot of a few abstract sculptures she knew to represent several virtues of tolerance. It didn't escape her that she was most likely the cause of her mental duress at the moment.

"It's difficult to meditate with you standing there," the older woman chastises. It's a familiar reprimand. Back when she was a child, she had difficulty grasping the concept of solo meditation. She had wanted to be in the same room as her parents, curled up next to her mother or perhaps sitting in her father's lap.

She approaches T'Les slowly, her steps making muffled noises on the wood paneling of the floor. T'Pol had left her paramour in the garden, where she was sure he'd have a lot to think about. But for now she was focused on the impending confrontation and the deceptions she had been lead on to believe. She felt so angry that her heart pounded in her ears, so loud that she was sure her mother could hear it from where she sat. She started with a simple statement. "This retirement wasn't your choice."

"That's not entirely accurate. I chose to retire rather than face dismissal," T'Les admitted, not making eye contact with her daughter.

"I was under investigation by the Ministry of Security," she continued, "they claimed I had taken restricted data from the Academy archives." The entire notion was ludicrous, and she hoped that T'Pol could see that. If she were to pull a fast one on the powers that be, she would have been much more clever than that.

"Did you?"

T'Les is offended by the question, but feels that it may be passable. They've hidden things from each other, way much more than kin should. "No. Their accusations were fabricated. I was told that if I left the Academy, they would end the inquiry."

This outrages T'Pol even further. Some of her anger is deflected off of her mother and towards her former employer. In the years she had worked in their ranks, she had been asked to do some rather unpleasant things. But it was worse when one's own family was affected. "Why would the Ministry do this?"

She doesn't speak, only looks away for some time. Immediately, she understands. Her peers continued to blame her for the incident at P'Jem, and because they couldn't reach her on _Enterprise_ , they decided to retaliate on the one person they knew they could punish. It made perfect sense in retrospect, something that she should have anticipated from her crafty brothers in arms. "I've made many enemies here."

"It seems that you might be prepared to make even more," T'Les said. "You refuse to bond with Koss and follow through with your betrothal because of your attachment to this human. Need I remind you that his father, the Administrator Havek, is one of the most powerful men in the province? Or perhaps you don't recall what an honor it was to have his son promised to you, the daughter of a widow."

T'Pol blinks slowly, clenching his fists in an attempt to mitigate her rage. Her emotions are closer to the surface than they have ever been, something she knows does not escape her mother. "Father would not have approved of their subterfuge."

This is a heavy subject for both of them. One day, when the truth was revealed, T'Pol would know that he had been killed because of his involvement in counterrevolutionary activities, and her mother's life was in danger because of the very same thing. Perhaps she would never know that their betrothal was another pact sealed behind closed doors, one made to buy the silence of the administrator. T'Les had spent her entire life fighting, wrestling with these circumstances she had fallen into, and now she found it the easiest option to give in.

"Perhaps he would. Be aware that if you choose the human as your champion, you will bring much shame upon me and the rest of the clan. You might never be welcomed home again," she warns.

 _As if she was welcome home even now._ T'Les had not walked among the people of the city, felt their disdainful looks and eyes downcast upon her. Suddenly, she is filled with the urge to defy her mother. It is not a juvenile commitment, but a desire to forge a new path. If she was to be happy, it would not be by the determination of her people, but by herself.

"If I am never to return, that would be none of your concern," she snaps. In her heart, she knows she will never win over the approval of her mother, or even that of her people. The time for comfort in the old ways was over. Turning on her heels, she strides purposefully out of the room.

-0-

Hours later, a correspondence arrives at the offices of Administrator Havek. As one of the deputy legislators under the head of the High Command, he receives many messages, many marked under the classification of high priority. But it was the address line that caught his attention.

He had expected to hear from his son's betrothed promptly after they met that afternoon, wherein she would submit to his demands for the greater benefit of her mother. However, nothing could have prepared him for what he was about to read.

It seemed that T'Pol had invoked her right to the _kal-if-fee_ rather than making the wiser choice. In two days' time, he and his entourage were to report to the ceremonial grounds on the steppes of Mount Seleya, where his son would fight his challenger for the privilege of the lady's hand.

What shook him to his very core was the fact that her chosen champion was human. As of late, his name had been of very poignant interest to the members of the High Command.

It seemed that the daughter of the Syrannite had rebellion in her blood.

Standing up, he cried with urgency to the intern waiting outside, "Get me Administrator V'Las!"

-0-

Double checking to make sure that the message had been sent to its intended recipient, T'Pol pushed the button that would blacken the screen of her personal PADD. She felt a keen degree of satisfaction knowing that she had set the deed in motion. Turning in her chair, she addressed the man on the opposite side of the room.

Malcolm had been sitting on the end of her childhood bed, reading with interest on the particulars of the ceremony he had promised to fight. Gazing up at her with a mixture of wide-eyed wonder and sheer trepidation, he intoned, "I suppose I'd better start training."

-0-

Hoshi waited all day, but Trip did not return. Around noon, she retired to the downstairs living area, where she cued up a film on the flat screen. She watched with dull interest, only half listening to the plot while her other ear was practically pressed to the front door.

After three romantic comedies, she selected a worn novel from the bookshelf and began to read. It was a classic, a revered epic about windmills and the desolate wilderness of southern Spain. She vaguely remembered reading it during a high school language studies course. The nostalgia was comforting.

Past nine o'clock in the evening, the rain had begun to let up, but only marginally. It was then she heard an insistent knock at the door and went to investigate.

She meant to ascertain the identity of the visitor before she even opened the door, but being too short for the peephole, Hoshi didn't hesitate to swing the door wide open.

A young man with a scraggly beard, clad in galoshes and a yellow rain slicker, supported a limp figure with his arm. He smiled at her, wide enough to see that he had very few teeth. A fetid stench emanated from his personage, almost as if he hadn't showered for days. Before he even had a chance to speak, Hoshi could tell that he was very intoxicated.

"Good evenin', ma'am. I've come to return something that might be yours. He was at Smithfield Tavern, drunk as a skunk, and propositionin' damn near every woman that walked on by. He couldn't pay his tab, so the bouncer asked me to wheel him on home." Once the fisherman was done relaying his story, he poked his companion in the ribs so he'd stand straighter.

By God and heaven, Hoshi had never seen someone looking so miserable in her life. From what she could see in the light of the streetlamps, Trip's eyes were bloodshot and his nose was running. It was evident that he had been crying. In this state, he looked as helpless as a lost child.

"Yes, thank you," she said, taking Trip's hand. "But how did you know where we were staying?"

The older man looked confused. "Ma'am, everyone knows where the Taylor's guest house is."

Say _what_ now?

She didn't give herself time to think about it. Wrapping Trip's arm around her shoulders, she helped him inside the house. One more muttered thanks to the sailor, and they were out of view behind the closed door.

 _(to be continued)_


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I just can't believe I have this much time on my hands. Have the floss handy, because this chapter is all sugar and sap.

 **Haven**

 **Chapter Six**

The headache is what brought him out of his drunken stupor, and into the reality of the worst hangover he had ever experienced in all of his thirty-two years. Of course, being the idiot that he was, he immediately tried to sit straight up in bed.

 _That_ was a mistake. His vision blurred and the pounding reached a feverish pitch. Before his head hit the pillow once more, he caught sight of a raven-haired woman perched in the armchair at the far corner of the room.

"Hoshi, is that you?" It had to be. She was the only one in the house, the only one who could have possibly stayed with him after the mistakes he'd made last night. There was a rustling noise, like that of the folds of a gown opening, and then she stood up. Reaching out to her, he moaned, "Oh my God. I feel like shit."

An acidic taste soon reached the back of his mouth. He coughed indignantly, and then she was there, thrusting the trash can from the hallway bathroom into his hands.

"You should," she replied mordantly, her tone practically frigid. As he retched into the receptacle, effectively emptying the contents of his stomach for the umpteenth time since he had come home, Hoshi left without another word.

-0-

He had read beforehand how thin the air was on Vulcan, so really, he should have seen this coming. About ten minutes into his jog around the perimeter of the estate, Malcolm could feel his lungs contracting unnaturally as he fought to get enough oxygen into his system.

And if it wasn't for the atmosphere, the heat would probably get him next. It was oppressive, seeming to beat down from every angle. At T'Pol's insistence, he had lathered up with a particularly potent formula of sunscreen, but it seemed to do little good on his maladjusted skin. But he had to keep going, or else he would never have a chance at beating Koss.

 _Koss_. His very name sent a needling of distaste running through his body, although he knew that he had motives and desires of his own, and methods that he thought were perfectly reasonable for achieving those goals. All things considered, had he not so blithely bought into his father's scheme and then pretended to be ignorant of it after the fact, he might of escaped the classification of a less than desirable character.

As he rounded the corner, he came into view of the main entrance to the home. T'Pol was there, holding a thermos of something he dearly hoped to be water. Had she been any other woman, he would have felt the need to try and impress her. But seeing as they had laid themselves bare to each other over the course of a very evocative twenty-four hours, he saw little need to.

Malcolm sunk to his haunches, gratefully accepting the beverage she offered. She must know he was struggling, but she had yet to lose faith in her champion. Silently, curling her knees to her chest, she joined him on the ground.

-0-

After the confrontation with her mother, T'Pol had insisted on leaving the home. And because he didn't feel particularly keen on being alone with the woman in question, he had joined her on an impromptu trip to the fire plains of Vulcan's highlands.

It turned out that the family lived very close to the landmark in question, almost alarmingly so. Great cracks in the surface of the earth formed yawning mouths from which ash and magma spewed forth. Mammoth statues of notable figures dotted the landscape, many of them robed with their eyes focused indeterminably in the distance.

They observed the phenomenon at a safe distance for some time. On the way up to the viewing platform, her hand had rested on the inside crook of his elbow. If he was honest, Malcolm wasn't sure to whom that brought the most benefit.

When they reached their perch high on the craggy face of the mountain, they began to speak about what was to come. Even though there was no one around at such late an hour, they still spoke in hushed tones. It made things more immediate. More intimate.

"My mother's tolerance of you will grow with time," she assured him, her lips drawn tight in a thin line of concern. "She neglects to tell you that my father was indeed her betrothed, but she had another chosen mate. However, she felt the need to yield to the expectations of her parents."

"That seems to be the difference between you and her," Malcolm said.

"If we succeed, it will be a victory for many," she mumbled. After so many years of feeling oppressed by the lot she had been cast, she had come to terms with the fact that she couldn't be the only one to wish to flee obligation.

 _We?_ That confused him. Sure, she had to undergo the ceremony and put the good name of her family on the line, but was he not to do the actual fighting? His _life_ was on the line. At the sudden realization that he could die for the sake of a woman who might not even love him, he felt faint.

T'Pol sensed his unease and sought to fill the silence. Yet what she had to say next did not do wonders to comfort him. "Should you emerge the champion, you and I would be considered betrothed."

That was the kind of truth bomb that he had been anticipating. It was a weighty notion, the possibility of a sudden marriage. She watched his face morph into a dozen different expressions of incredulity and apprehension. Malcolm looked away from her and out onto the plains, where the fires of midday raged on.

Because they were sitting so close together, she did not hesitate to drop her head onto his shoulder.

-0-

After a night full of unrestful sleep, he had awakened early and set to training for the stressors of the _kal-if-fee_. On _Enterprise_ , he would have been sparring in top condition. But here, it seemed that even the environment was working against him. He even located a heavy sack of grains in the pantry and strung it up outside on a tree branch so he could take a few swings at it. All the while, he pictured a certain smug bastard's face painted on it.

Yes, physical activity was good, as long as he didn't have to think about what he was getting himself into. And that was _incredibly_ hard with a certain captivating lady checking in on him every hour or so.

Back to their position seated against the exterior wall of the home, the pair gazed out into the distance, to the sunset sinking on the horizon. Soon, it would be dark, and there would be a little less than thirty-six hours until the fight to the death. You had better bet Malcolm was counting down those hours like a condemned man.

"I wanted to express my gratitude," T'Pol began, distinctly avoiding eye contact with him. After a lifetime of instruction in the efficiency of word choice, it was still awkward for her to thank someone for their help. "I will not pretend to understand why you chose to help me, but know that your efforts will never be in vain."

When she looks at him the next time, her eyes are brimming with emotions and things unsaid. He's seen that look only a few times before, mostly during the Xindi conflict.

He had crossed paths with her in the corridor and delivered a damage report. Captain Archer was presumed dead and their world had come down around them in a matter of minutes. Now, watching her tremble and stagger among the downed pylons of the deck, it was all he could do not to draw her into his arms and try to comfort her the best he could. If she would let him do just that, it would greatly help the both of them.

"You are my superior officer," he ground out in a desperate attempt to avoid the truth. "It is my duty to protect you."

She looks doubtful.

In all of his years among the living, Malcolm had been continually set at a disadvantage by life. And while he tried to be strong, he often found himself at a breaking point. This was one of those times.

They retired to the interior of the house after, he making tracks towards the sonic shower. It was a peculiar sensation, all of those frequencies pulsing through his body, but he could see why it would be necessary on a desert planet like Vulcan.

The faint buzzing noise coming from the inner mechanisms of the device gave him a low grade headache. He left the bathroom and entered the guest's bedchamber, where he collapsed face down into the bed, woefully and devastatingly exhausted.

Before he could bury his head in the pillow and fall into what would surely be another gloriously dreamless sleep, a rigid piece of fabric poked into his ribs. Rolling over to face the ceiling, Malcolm pulled out his folded NX-01 cap from underneath him.

Truth be told, he hadn't worn it much in the past year or so. Ever since the incident in shuttlepod one with Trip Tucker, one of the first brushes with death he'd had so far in the course of the mission, he found that it reminded him of less than savory occurrences.

Under the assumption that their emaciated, oxygen starved bodies would eventually be found, he remembers composing a letter in haste to several notable ex-lovers. He'd never been a man to wax poetic on love lost, and the sheer number of women mentioned had irritated Trip. Really, if there were going to die together, shouldn't they compromise on how to spend their last hours?

They had proceeded to get drunk on a flask of the Captain's borrowed bourbon and gossip about the crew they were sure to never see again. He confesses that he finds T'Pol attractive; after all, what's said in that particular shuttlepod was more than likely to stay there.

The next few hours are all a blur. The men carouse, argue, and engage in sundry acts of desperation as those who are fated to die often do. There's an argument, fiddling with the airlock, and threats with a phase pistol. When Malcolm wakes up in sickbay, he catches a glimpse of the very woman who had been the star of some very odd dreams.

Truth be told, he wasn't sure if his exchange with the Captain had been a dream. Had Enterprise really detected the detonation of their impulse drive? Was he dead? With the incandescent lighting forming a halo behind her head, T'Pol would fit the guise of an angel.

He asks if she's supposed to say something about heroics, undoubtedly his. Somewhat amused, she bids him goodnight and advised him to sleep well.

He surely wouldn't be doing that tonight.

Rising from the bed, Malcolm pulls a fresh shirt over his head and enters the hallway. The lights are dim, but it's only a matter of time before he finds himself standing in front of her door. He knocks softly, then enters.

T'Pol is seated on the edge of her bed, her posture mirroring that of their earlier meeting. On a small end table, a candle flickers. She draws her eyes upwards to meet his.

Did she remember the incident involving shuttlepod one? Had he been so transparent when he spoke to her after the fact? Did she know how often that day haunted him, because he should have been writing all of those letters to _her_?

He had to tell her, or else he might never get the courage to say it. If he was to fight the _kal-if-fee_ , it was better to do so as an honest man.

"I've been thinking about what you've said, about us becoming betrothed were I to win this competition," he began. Slowly, she stands, and comes to within a foot of him.

Malcolm takes a deep breath, relishing the anticipation he sees in her eyes. "I don't think that would be a bad thing."

It's what she's been waiting to hear. Weak with emotion, she allows herself to be drawn into his arms and embraced. If it's a confirmation she's been waiting for, she knows to find it next in the way he delicately cups her cheeks and presses his lips to hers.

-0-

It's well into the evening when Trip feels well enough to venture out of his room. Quietly, he searches the home until he finds the door to the porch unlocked and tracks of bare feet pointed in the direction of the beach.

He finds Hoshi there, sitting Indian style on a blanket and gazing out to sea. The storm swept out with a whisper, leaving heightened tides as the only evidence it had been there. Trip takes precautionary measures to make sure she doesn't hear him approach, but when he comes within several yards of her, she turns her head around to stare him down.

"Look who's finally rejoined the land of the living." She flinches when he sits down next to her, but says nothing else.

Trip doesn't know where to start. To get himself out of the doghouse would require herculean efforts of brown nosing, which he knows he's not prepared for. He's certainly taken aback when Hoshi takes the initiative to speak first. "I arranged a transport first thing tomorrow morning. I'll be spending the rest of leave with Liz Cutler in Nebraska." Her eyebrows raise, as if she's daring him to challenge her.

He sighs. "Now, I understand why you'd want to do that, but—"

"But what? Are you _seriously_ suggesting I stay here with you?"

"I am," he confessed, "because I need your help."

"Yeah? No shit," she hissed. "All this time, I thought I'd been helping you come to terms with what happened out in the Expanse. Come to find out all my words have been for nothing and you'd rather hook up with some local floozy than notice what's in front of you."

He knew that _Enterprise's_ mission had changed Hoshi. Three years ago, she wouldn't have spoken to anyone with such sharp of a tone. Then again, she also wouldn't have slept with a superior officer, but that was beside the point. "Fine. I get it. I'll let you leave. I'll let you never speak to me again outside of duty. I'll let you wreck my reputation to the female complement of the crew. But let me ask you a question first."

She throws her hands up in the air in frustration. "Absolutely. Anything for you." The sarcasm in her voice delivers a swift one-two punch to his gut.

"Do you think I chose to vacation here just for the hell of it?" His voice is quiet, unassuming.

Something about that sticks out in her mind. A little detail, something that had come as a surprise to her before she was consumed with rage. She decides to entertain his explanation.

"Of course I didn't, because Mr. and Mrs. Taylor live just up the beach. This is their guest house. They hit me up at the welcoming ceremony because they were just so _touched_ by the _lovely_ eulogy I sent to them about their daughter," Trip said. "They wanted to speak with me, to meet with me, and even though they're literally three minutes up the road I just can't bring myself to offer my condolences in person."

Hoshi's eyes light up with concern. The fire in her belly begins to dissipate, but only slightly.

"You know, sometimes I wish I could be like our first officer. All level headed, calm, not letting her emotions get the best of her. I wish I could be rational like her, because now every time I look in the mirror I'm disappointed by the man I see. Jane deserved a nice letter home, and I couldn't even give her that. So did Jackson, Galdamez, and Fallon. I started to think, once I was going back through their files, that I should have complimented them more. Should have thanked them for their service more often, especially when things got tough and I ran them ragged. But I know that wouldn't have brought them back to life."

Now, the rationale behind Trip's behavior, while still inexcusable, was becoming even clearer.

"If you want the truth, Hosh, I gotta say that I was scared of putting you in harm's way. It seems that everything I love as of late just dies," he lamented, clenching his fists together.

"Did you just say—"

"Let me finish, please," he pleaded. "If I were smart, I'd beg for a do over. I know that if I were placed in the position I was then, I would have handled things better. But I can't do that, I can't go back and reverse the things I did. I just need to acknowledge that they were wrong, and now that I know better, they won't happen again."

He paused to take a breath, noticing how Hoshi's emotions were dangerously close to the surface. "And that's why you have to believe me when I say that I'm sorry. I was so busy trying not to hurt you that I wound up damaging so many other things." Tears sprung to his eyes, but he made no effort to wipe them away.

The tides surge forward at that moment, lapping at his toes and signaling a change of direction. Hoshi begins to weep openly and wraps her arms around his midsection, sobbing into his chest.

Sometime later, as her cries dissolve into hiccups and catharsis is reached for the couple, she feels the need to reassure him, "It's okay."

"It's going to be," Trip agrees, continuing to hold her close.

 _(to be continued)_


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: At long last, my family has left my home and I can write in peace. Don't get me wrong, I do love them, it's just that the ceremony is only over the weekend for a reason. Now that I'm a high school graduate and I won't be moving into the dorms until mid-July, it's time to buckle down and finish this thing. Many thanks to the readers and faithful commenters for continually supporting me even when I do disappoint them. I recommend listening to the beginning of Ludovico Einaudi's spectacular album _Nightbook_ while you read the start of the _kal-if-fee_. Trust Skye on this one; it's spectacular writing music.

This chapter was not beta read, so any plot holes I may have managed to create are purely my responsibility. I went back and watched _Amok Time_ from TOS for the first time in about a year to try and stay as close to the source material as possible. But fear not, for there will be sundry elements of chaos, as in VOY's _Blood Fever._ Sorry, Vorik.

Next time: The fight is on. Also, Troshi pays a visit to the Taylor household.

 **Haven**

 **Chapter Seven**

Malcolm's dreams are full of shade and shadow the night before he is to fight to the death. Vague omens and dazzling allegory dance across his plane of vision, only visible from the external view by the singular twitch of an eyelid. He needs to be rested for the ceremony, but something within him keeps him from achieving this state of unconsciousness. It's akin to all of the times he's been on assignment, sleeping out in the open, on guard for an assailant at any moment. His intuition is telling him something, and he knows better than to refuse it attention.

It suddenly comes to him, by a lightning strike of realization, that this is much bigger than a dispute between two families.

Of all the daughters of faculty members at the Academy of Sciences, why would Koss's father insist on the offspring of two rather unimpressive midlevel instructors? On paper, T'Les and Sanet were ordinary Vulcan citizens of unimposing clan designation. It would have been in their best interest to marry their daughter off well.

But such pairings, he had discovered from his research, were relatively rare. Administrator Havek seemed to be a rather crafty man whose every move was calculated for maximum impact. Although they would never admit it, he most likely struck fear into those with less political power. He would not have concerned himself with a family he considered to be beneath his status… _unless_ he wanted something from them.

Over the course of the previous day, between his ineffectual attempts at training, T'Pol had confided in him that her mother's retirement had not been of her own free will. She believed that this was a direct result of the destruction of the monastery at P'Jem.

He recalled the incident well. It was one of the first times he had been left alone in charge of the bridge, and things had quickly run afoul. If only he was more clever, a bit faster on his feet, he might have been able to avoid a hostage situation. Now, a little more than two years on from the debacle, his guilt had subsided and he was left with questions.

T'Les was a tenured teacher with many years serving the interests of the High Command under her belt. Just how much of the Archives would have been restricted to her? Was it enough for an entire investigation to be launched towards the cause, especially when the Vulcans were facing much more pressing difficulties?

The more he thought about it, between the elusive states of dreaming and cognizance, the less it made sense. The mastermind behind the marriage, the driving force in T'Pol's consideration to marry Koss, seemed to be her mother. Why would she want this if it would only draw her back into the same abusive environment that had destroyed her career?

What was she hiding?

From the courtyard, the gong was struck. It seemed to him that this was earlier than normal, but he yielded to the pull of classically conditioned behavior and stepped out of bed. A starched pair of slacks and a dress shirt was folded neatly atop the armoire, meaning that someone had been in his room while he was asleep. Was it his newfound lover, seeing to every last minute detail of the preparation? Or was it her mother, creeping in under the veil of night to contemplate her daughter's champion and desperately prognosticate as to how much he knew?

Malcolm hadn't trusted the woman from the beginning, but T'Les was appearing less credible by the minute. What frightened him at the moment was that there was now little time to investigate, to gather information in the subtle manner he had perfected over many years of service. Every step he would take forward now would be done so blindly. He didn't want to risk it. He didn't want to risk the fragile relationship he had with T'Pol, and he certainly didn't want to risk his life to entertain some Administrator's ego trip.

But the closer the appointed time approached, he was forced to come to terms with the fact that he would have no choice.

-0-

It's the first day of shore leave that Hoshi and Trip have been in full understanding of each other and free of emotional burden. They awake in his bed, limbs intertwined under the bedspread, with no real plan for the day. There's almost a week left to enjoy themselves, to frolic up and down the beach and set the eastern seaboard aflame. But as for now, they are quite content to stretch luxuriously and take in the first deep breaths of the morning.

Trip excuses himself from the bedroom while his paramour performs her hygienic routine and bounds downstairs. He doesn't bother to leave a note; although yesterday his unexplained absence had caused some strife, he knows that Hoshi is no longer in fear of his deception.

From his father, he had learned a great deal of things, especially when it came to women. He had broken the first cardinal rule of a relationship by going to bed without resolving a conflict. Observation taught him that there was a fine art to apology, regret, and acquiescence. But there was one thing his father always did for his mother that left her with dull memory of any of his most recent misdeeds.

Thundering down the boardwalk in the first pair of shorts he had laid his hands on that morning, he made tracks to a specialty shop a few blocks away. The clerk had given him an odd look, for he hadn't expected his first customer of the day to be a breathless man without shoes, but had imparted his goods upon him nonetheless.

And that was how Trip found himself slamming the screen door shut behind him on the return trip, a dozen long-stemmed red carnations in his hands.

Roses were for romance, but carnations were for thoughtfulness. And he had every intention on sweeping Hoshi off her feet with the gesture. However, when he enters the bedroom, he finds that she might have very different plans for his gift.

The Japanese woman wears a modest sundress, her hair swept back in the casual ponytail he finds so familiar. As she rights herself from bending over his suitcase, he can see that she's draped the most formal outfit he had packed over the bedpost.

"Today's the day," she insists, her tone firm but eyes soft with affection.

-0-

Catching a prolonged glimpse of himself in a mirror, Malcolm decided that the outfit that had been selected for him wasn't going to work. The sleeves were too long and his shoulders were much too broad for the seams. Then again, it was typical of him to obsess over the minute details when there was a more effectual matter weighing over his head.

He hadn't seen T'Pol yet that morning. He had read that the formalities surrounding the _kal-if-fee_ were often treated with undue finesse, so he could only imagine the elaborate costume she would have to squeeze into. But he was dressed in a rather plain set of formal clothes, and couldn't help but wonder if Koss would do the same.

Having stood outside the door for quite some time, mulling over the actions she was about to take, T'Les sweeps into the room without so much as a knock. This startles Malcolm, who turns to face her.

"If we do not start the processional immediately, we will not arrive on time," she warns. It's about as subtle of a hint as he's going to get to get his ass in gear.

Whatever she's about to say next, it escapes her lips soundlessly. The sight of the human in the charcoal gray ensemble stirs something in her memory. In an instant, her fingers are at his collar, assisting him in his dilemma.

"My daughter has chosen well," she says, and neither are entirely sure whether she speaks of clothing or something else. "These clothes belonged to my husband."

 _Good lord_. Biting his lip, he gestures down at the fabric pooling around his ankles. He can't replace Sanet, whether in spirit or in physical presence. "They don't fit me."

"They will have to do," she replies softly and with so much fervor that he momentarily forgets his goal to weaken her resolve. "Mr. Reed, I am glad that my daughter has chosen such an honorable champion."

The comment floors him. Just yesterday, T'Les had been so fervently against this, and now she was on his side. He knew at that moment that he didn't have a hope of understanding these people.

Malcolm wants to bring up T'Pol's apathy towards Koss, but knows this will make little difference to such a pragmatic species. It only confirms his suspicions that the administration of the High Command has wronged her in some way, and that she was now willing to choose whatever antagonizing option presented itself. Gut feeling had won the day over obligation to one's culture, as it often did in the end.

"I understand that your late husband was not your betrothed," he confesses, knowing full well that it is an egregious breach of privacy for him to know this. But he hopes to convey his understanding of her motives. It was not entirely difficult to discover this discrepancy in virtue; if one knew where to look, the truth often revealed itself.

The older woman pauses with her palms on his forearms, having just hiked up the sleeves a quarter inch. It was true that she had defied her mother's wishes, choosing infatuation over responsibility. It was not entirely unreasonable to make the assumption that her daughter would do the same. Struggling to piece her thoughts together and weighed down with things she could not possibly express at the moment, she said simply, "One day, T'Pol will understand that everything I have done has been to her benefit."

T'Les doesn't even tell him to hasten his preparations, only tipping her head in Malcolm's direction and ducking through the door.

-0-

When T'Les had suggested a processional, Malcolm had inferred that it would be only the three of them making the trek up to the ceremonial battle grounds. What he hadn't expected was a veritable parade of acolytes and assistants accompanying him to his doom.

Two men in chain mail helmets led the way, each holding a trapezoidal frame of wire at arm's length. From each tier, a series of bells dangled and struck each other. That and the sound of their footsteps was the only thing to be heard in the deathly morning stillness.

Behind them, four men wearing hawk-nosed masks carried a variety of weapons. Malcolm immediately recognized the _lirpa_ , a traditional instrument of warfare with a fan shaped blade on one end and a club on the other. He had trained with it intermittently at the Academy, just enough to know how deadly it could be when used with a particular amount of devastating force. He made a mental note to choose that as his first defense when the time came.

Was he really considering strategy? Sure, he had killed before, but only when under orders and never under his own free will. It was downright uncharacteristic for him to be thinking like this. But he knew one thing about the desert, and that was that no matter where in the galaxy the shifting sands asserted their dominance, it had the tendency to turn the feeble into the strong and the prey into the hunter.

T'Les met him at the gate, and the two nodded towards each other. As the interim matriarch of the family, she took the lead and continued their ascent up the mountain.

Just as he was beginning to fear T'Pol wouldn't show up, there she was, resplendent in a lavender gown and matching veil.

His breath caught in his throat. Seeing how anxious she was, how her entire body was tensed in anticipation, suddenly made the entire ordeal more real for him. Malcolm mumbles something about how beautiful she looks, and she responds by telling him that he looks _honorable_.

There was that word again. How could she bring herself to utter something like that, especially when he was prepared to kill for her? By God he was prepared to do anything, whatever it took to keep her safe. And that scared the holy hell out of him.

A narrow butte had been carved on the side of the mountain centuries previously, its sloping sides reaching them at some distance along the trail. A circle of stones supported by columns ringed the ceremonial grounds, obscurely reminding the human of Stonehenge. Several people stood huddled together, deep in conversation. When one notices that the other party is approaching, a massive gong is struck, heralding the start of the ritual.

It shakes Malcolm to his core.

He and his party enter the circle, the protective group that had accompanied him quickly separating. Even T'Pol scurries away to join a handful of women at the far end of the grounds, who surrounded her and obscured her from his view. It seemed to him from their body language that they were arguing, desperately trying to convince her to forget her wishes and return to obligation.

Several men in silvery costumes crossed the threshold, each balancing one end of a litter on their shoulders. A hushed silence descended upon all those who were in attendance. The elderly Vulcan gentleman that now sat in the sedan chair, glaring down upon those he perceived to be his subjects, looked oddly familiar.

Perhaps he had seen him in a briefing, or in a news segment detailing the members of the Vulcan government. From what he had read, it was common for the senior member of the clan to preside over the proceedings of the _kal-if-fee_. But from the tense silence all around him, Malcolm could deduce that a sighting of this man wasn't common around here.

"What you are about to see comes down from the time of the beginning without change," he says once his pallbearers have set him down on a raised dais some distance from where the action was to take place.

Administrator Havek's acolytes step aside, revealing the imposing figure of Koss himself. Whatever he was feeling right now, he was trying his hardest to disguise it. He stepped forward and bowed before the officiator, and Malcolm immediately mimicked him.

After exchanging _ta'als_ , the man continued, "This is the Vulcan heart. This is the Vulcan soul. This is the Vulcan way."

"Administrator, my betrothed has brought into our household a challenger," Koss stated, casting a dismissive glare in the direction of the man in question.

The officiator, apparently a man of some influence, scrutinized Malcolm from head to toe. The gears were grinding in his head, but he still asked, "Who is this offworlder that defends a claim to one of our women?"

Before he could speak, he heard T'Pol respond in a level tone: "He is Lieutenant Malcolm Reed of Earth, son of Stuart, son of Mary, my desired mate."

Some flash of recognition stirred behind the old man's eyes. Hearing the challenger's name announced, the adherents that were holding the frames of bells shook them with force. The crowd began to mutter amongst themselves.

"Kroikah!" He cried. "Koss of Vulcan, son of Havek, son of T'Rin, do you accept the challenge according to our laws and customs?"

"Yes," he said, and their men bearing weapons approached.

"Lady T'Pol, are you willing to become the property of the victor?"

Even Malcolm flinched at the antiquated wording of that. But, as always, if there was a question, she had an answer. Forming a triangle over her breast with interlocking hands, she repeated the lines that she had been able to recite from memory since shore leave began. "As it was in the dawn of our days, as it is today, as it will be for all tomorrows, I have made my choice."

The man stood suddenly, approaching the center of the circle. From underneath the gong, a fire smoldered. Behind him, T'Les and Havek bowed their heads out of respect.

"I, Administrator V'Las of the High Command, am honored to preside over the challenge. The proceedings will take place in accordance with our laws and customs. If Malcolm Reed wishes to retract his claim, let it be known that this is his final opportunity."

Something in Malcolm's mind clicked as he put a name with a face. From the way V'Las was staring him down with the faint air of expectation, he knew that his name carried some weight for him as well. This was the conniving, manipulative head of the High Command he had read about. This would have been the man who would have had the power to dismiss T'Les from her station.

Seeing how the exits were now ringed with ranks of armed guards, with several stationed behind the older woman, he finally understood.

"I accept the challenge," he announced defiantly, nodding slightly at T'Les. Something in her face twitched, but she set her jaw and returned the gesture.

"Very well," V'Las said, returning to his seat. He exchanged glances with Havek, as if to confirm that this was the man he had been speaking of. They shared the knowledge that Reed was a dangerous man, but each desired to gain the upper hand in a different way. His mind already working several steps ahead, he announced, "Here begins the act of combat for possession of the woman T'Pol."

He accepts the _lirpa_ that he's handed, the translucent silk it had been wrapped in falling to the ground. The sand creates an uneven texture beneath his feet, and the sun pounds into his eyes. Without relief, he's momentarily blinded and almost doesn't catch Koss running towards him, weapon held aloft and face contorted in rage, until it's too late.

 _(to be continued)_


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thank you all for the kind words and wishes. It's always a pleasure to receive advice from the more older and worldlier ladies and gentlemen I meet because of my stories. For the benefit of public knowledge, I've got a full ride to study chemical and pharmaceutical engineering this fall. High school may have been a journey, but graduation wasn't the end. It was just the start of a new one.

Another unbetaed chapter, because I was just so looking forward to getting this one out. Be warned, this chapter contains moderately graphic violence.

A fic of the week, to indulge you: Sita Z's _Counselor_. Because minority pairings and Phlox's advice never hurt anyone.

Next time: Expect recovery, but there are still plans to be made. There will be ten chapters in total.

 **Haven**

 **Chapter Eight**

Truthfully, he hadn't expected Koss to attack him so aggressively.

The blade of the _lirpa_ flew upwards and then out in a stabbing motion, nicking his cheek before he could dodge out of the way. Almost immediately, Malcolm tasted blood.

His opponent had delivered his first and only warning shot. There was no time to experience disorientation. Assuming a defensive stance, he surveyed his options.

The Vulcans were a rational race, so clearly their fighting style would reflect this. Koss lunged at him once again, and the pair was soon engaged in a rather violent game of cat and mouse around the periphery of the arena. Now that he was in the moment with his life very clearly at risk, Malcolm knew that his attempts at training over the past two days had been next to worthless.

He ducked under the arm of his opponent, meaning to strike at his blind spot, only to have the blow parried away. One of his armory crewmen wouldn't have expected that, but Koss clearly anticipated his every move. It would have been the logical decision to fight in the martial way. That was what was predicted of him as a career Starfleet man. But no Vulcan could coherently delineate the actions of an erratic human.

Malcolm quickly recovered, delivering a swift kick to Koss's backside. The man stumbled forward, struggling to balance his prodigious weight. Once his eyes were off his pursuant, focusing on the ground underneath him, the Brit brought down the club end of the _lirpa_ on his lower back.

All of the air escaped Koss's lungs, but he was on his feet once again within seconds. From the shock in his expression, he could tell that he had not been expected to fight dirty.

A smirk crossed Reed's features before he could stop it. Using the length of the weapon, he deflected several smaller strikes. All the while, he could not discern that he was being slowly backed up to the fire pit in the center of the circle.

Suddenly, there was a burst of conversation among the women. He couldn't help it; his eyes strayed to T'Pol, and the sight of her wide, frightened eyes shook him to the core. It was exactly the opportunity Koss had been waiting for.

The two fell to the steps of the platform where the gong swung dangerously low over the coals. Malcolm had broken their fall, so he was momentarily thrown from cognizance. The reddish sky and clouds far above swam before his line of vision. He knew that he had hit his head on the stones of the hearth, quite possibly hard enough to cause a concussion.

His brain was having difficulty making a link between what he saw and the sensations he was feeling. For a moment, everything clicked, and he was being held inches from death with a Vulcan's vicelike grip around his neck.

Instinctively, his own hands went to combat the crushing motion of Koss's hands. The flames of the fire eagerly sought out the short hairs they found, leaving the back of his head singed. He wanted to cry out in pain, but found that he could not.

With a herculean burst of adrenaline fueled strength, Malcolm initiated a twisting motion with his upper body. With this, the two men tumbled from the platform and into the sand. Their _lirpas_ had been hastily cast aside in their frantic struggle for the upper hand, leaving them with little more than their wits.

He managed to wriggle out from underneath the fuming Vulcan and stagger to his feet. Three identical men stood before him, shifting and changing positions like a mirage. Clutching his fists and bending his elbows, Malcolm decided to go for the middle one.

Somewhere in the interim of the transition between _lirpa_ spar and hand to hand combat, blood had begun to flow freely from a cut above his eyebrow. He surmised that it must have been from the backswing of Koss's initial attack, but right now he was having trouble keeping a mental record of events.

The two grappled with their fists for a minute or two, Koss quickly adapting to the Terran style of fighting, before Malcolm saw an open opportunity. He didn't know much about Vulcan biology, but he prayed that a strong blow to the solar plexus would be enough to incapacitate one.

To his surprise, it had little effect. He didn't have much time to express his shock before Koss is on top of him once again. This time, all vestiges of logic have left the man, and all he can do is pummeling his challenger with his bare fists.

Malcolm notes the naked rage that manifests itself in his furrowed upper brow and curled lip, but the sorrow in his eyes conveys a different story. Even as Koss beats his opponent mercilessly, driving him to near unconsciousness, something is amiss. Could he be full of fear? _Regret?_

He's losing his capacity for unencumbered thought. All there is in his world is Koss, his punches, and a blinding white light that gradually inches closer to him from a distance. He has been in this position a handful of times before, but this time he doesn't find himself making frantic appeals to some absent deity.

He thinks of T'Pol, her delicately pointed ears and the way she looks when her eyes are smiling but her mouth wouldn't dare betray it. He thinks of how he would never witness that again.

 _Please, if there is someone watching over me that I haven't yet forsaken, keep her safe._

Closing his eyes, Malcolm slips gratefully into the darkness.

-0-

Unbeknownst to anyone but themselves, Trip and Hoshi are making tentative progress towards the Taylor home. The morning is bright without a cloud in the sky, and a soft breeze blows in from the east. The couple walk together, hands clasped, eyes trained towards the ground.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to," she reminds him, although she doesn't really mean it. If Trip doesn't make amends with Jane's family during this shore leave, he might never do so by his own free will.

He shakes his head. "No, we're doing this today."

Secretly, she's glad that he's said as much. In the crook of one elbow, she balances a soon to be appropriated bunch of red carnations.

The main house, an enlarged mirror image of the one down the beach, is shuttered to the wind. This strikes Trip as odd. Having grown up in the south, he knows that every window is thrown open on a normal day to let the sunlight through.

In his mind's eye, he's suddenly back in Florida, walking the main drag of his town some distance away from the blast zone. Debris litters the streets and cars sit abandoned in the road. It's deserted, save for a few sullen faces peeking their way between drawn curtains. A cloud of mourning has settled over the village, one that wouldn't dissipate for some time.

On the porch, a rocking chair faces away from them. In it, an older woman sits, one foot on the ground as she maintains a steady swaying rhythm. In her hand, she holds a paperback book, firmly closed. She appears to be deep in thought.

At the foot of the steps now, Trip clears his throat and calls out, "Mrs. Taylor?"

The lady stands up. She's petite, with close cropped hair and horn rimmed spectacles, like his own grandmother had been. Her eyes are full of sadness, but when she recognizes the couple, they light up. "Mr. Tucker! I'm glad you've came. Please, call me Julie."

He gestures to the flowers in Hoshi's hand. "These are for you, ma'am. I'd like to introduce Ensign Hoshi Sato. She's staying with me in the guest house."

She accepts the gift, inhaling the fragrance of the blooms deeply. "How thoughtful of you! And how lovely to meet you, Miss Hoshi. I'll go get my husband, he should be around here somewhere."

A heavy feeling settled in Trip's gut. Mrs. Taylor disappears through the screen door and can be heard to shout, "Bill! Come downstairs. Jane's commanding officer is here!"

Hoshi squeezes his hand, noticing how he swallows thickly and sets his eyes on the ground. "We can do this," she reminds him.

He doesn't have time to respond before Julie returns and beckons them inside. "Please, come in! Would you like some coffee?"

-0-

Blackness. Emptiness. He's adrift in the void with nothing to tether to. For a moment Malcolm is sure he is dead, before he is thrust into the light once again.

He lies supine on a firm pallet, his head propped up. He tries to open his eyes, but can only see a sliver of what's before him. A moist towelette is dabbed on his brow with a delicate hand.

Someone speaks in Vulcan, a low, sonorous voice that is entirely unfamiliar. Since his eyes appear to be swollen shut, he attempts to voice his confusion. "Who are you? Where am I?" Even to him, his voice sounds hoarse and strained.

Footsteps trail away from him, only to be followed up by two sets of them on the return trip. His hand is removed from his side and brought up to his visitor's cheek.

The sensation is eerily conversant. Finally, with some difficulty, he lifts his eyelids and beholds the face of his beloved.

Relief washes over him to see her kneeling over him. T'Pol expresses her shock at the fact he's able to communicate, her lips parting in her own version of a toothless smile. The two don't bother to speak, because there's no need to.

Glancing over her shoulder to make sure that no one is watching, she presses a kiss to his bruised knuckles. When she leans back, he can see that he is no longer is the arena, but in an unidentifiable sterile room.

He wants to know what happened, but can't manage to vocalize his concerns. It's as if he's been swept away in a tidal wave of emotion, awash in the reassurance of T'Pol's love for him. All consuming in that moment, he knows that he couldn't have possibly made a mistake. Her joy is too strong, too palpable to even doubt.

A door opens at the far end of the room and the two jolt apart. As she steps away from him, Malcolm can see that her lovely gown that had been so pristine before the ceremony was now irreparably stained with what he believed to be his own blood. Every inch of him feels so weak, so spent, but when she removes her veil and presses it into his hands, he gratefully accepts it.

His lover disappears, he hopes only temporarily. Now alone, Malcolm seizes the opportunity to glean as much information as he can from his surroundings.

The traditional clothing he had donned for the start of the _kal-if-fee_ was gone, replaced with a starched white hospital gown. His hands strayed to his face, where he experimentally maneuvered the skin around his cuts. It felt like a majority of his body had been sterilized and bandaged, as well as pumped full of medicinal fluids. There was little doubt in his mind now. He had survived, but only barely.

The next entrant sweeps in stoically, but slams the door behind him. Malcolm flinches, which causes waves of pain to snake their way up his spine.

"Congratulations, Mr. Reed," he says. Craning his neck to one side, he's astonished to see that his visitor is none other than Administrator Havek.

He opens his mouth to reply, but is swiftly cut off. "There is no need to speak. You've only been unconscious for six hours. You are presently in the Academy of Sciences Hospital, ward six, where you are recovering from injuries sustained during combat."

There were no windows in the airless room, so there was no way to tell if he was lying to him. Blinking slowly, Malcolm trained his eyes on the figure that stood stock still at the end of his bed.

"Shortly before my son would have snapped your neck and been declared the victor, Lady T'Les intervened and offered us what we truly wanted. You should know that she has been taken into custody," he continued. "T'Pol is yours, but be forewarned that this comes with a price."

So his hostess really had been involved in less than desirous activities. She must have surrendered intel, and quite possibly her freedom, so that her daughter's champion could win the day. The sacrifice was admirable, and most likely made due to a snap decision.

"While the indignity of this loss is not to be taken lightly, Koss gratefully revoked his claim to his betrothed for the knowledge that he had assisted his people." Havek approached his bedside and seized a bruising hold of his wrist. "You may feel the need to rejoice, as this is undoubtedly good news for you and every treacherous man of your kind. Know that you will leave Vulcan at the conclusion of your shore leave, and you and your new wife may never return. What you have learned from your time here shall remain a secret, under penalty of retaliation."

He begins to twist backwards, a soundless cry of pain escaping Malcolm's lips. Just as he feared that his ligaments would snap from the injury, he was released.

The Administrator lowered his head to his ear, if only to impart one final ambiguous threat. Slowly, caustically, he ground out, "V'Las sends his regards on the recognition of your _illustrious_ victory."

The elder Vulcan is gone seconds later, leaving Malcolm to nurse his wounds and wildly prognosticate on what was to come.

-0-

Bill Taylor enters the kitchen shortly after they do, briskly shaking the couple's hands and introducing himself. Accepting a cup of coffee from his wife, he sat directly across from Trip.

"It's about time you showed up," he cajoled with a hint of an accent. "We were beginning to think the storm went and swept ya'll away, isn't that right, Julie?"

From the kitchen island, she shakes her head. Because of her pride or perhaps the renegade emotions churning in her gut, she has opted not to sit at the table with her guests. While her husband is eager to hide his discomfort, she isn't so adept.

Hoshi elbows her companion in the ribs, as if reminding him to answer the older man's attempt at conversation. He sits up straight and takes a sip of the bitter liquid in his mug, but says nothing.

"We're grateful that you've allowed us the use of your guest house," Hoshi said, glaring at Trip out of the corner of her eye. "It's beautiful, and we love the town."

"So do we," Julie assures her. "For the longest time, it was our own little Shangri-La. We raised five children on this property. Time seems to spin slower out here." She steps out from behind the island and stands by a casement window, her eyes on the horizon.

"I can see why that would be nice," Trip chokes out, his voice strained.

Suddenly, Bill sits forward, laying his giant palm atop Trip's shoulder. "Listen, son. We know why you held off three days before coming to see us."

"You do?" Hoshi thought that if he was wound up any tighter, he just might explode.

"There's no use beating yourself up about what happened out there. You're her commanding officer, but you aren't her keeper. While we wish things hadn't happened the way they did, we know that there's a reason behind everything, on account of the creator." Mr. Taylor glances away, to a series of religious symbols hung above a series of portraits on the far wall. It's clear that his faith has helped him through this difficult time.

Julie disappears from the room, only to return seconds later with an album tucked under her arm. "Jane was the oldest, you know. She has four younger brothers." Sitting next to Hoshi, she began to flip through the pages of photographs.

"James is at the Academy right now, studying warp theory. He phoned us just after we heard the news of the attack, said he had a premonition of sorts that somethin' bad had happened to her. He was able to make peace with it even before we did, thank heaven. I suggested that he leave San Francisco and come home for a while, but he said he had to keep workin', makin' progress to be the best engineer he could possibly be. It's what Jane would have wanted," Bill said.

His wife unexpectedly slides the photo album across the table in front of Trip so he could see the proof of her childish exploits. An adorable little girl with curly blonde hair is about to jump into a pile of autumn leaves, her enthusiasm and abject joy frozen in time. Even though he hadn't thought of her in a few days, a similar picture of Lizzie sprung to his mind.

"You can't punish yourself over something you had no control over, because if you do, you're always going to be miserable. Trust me, life deals us way too many misfortunes to count. But it's the way we set those things aside that determines our worth as a person," Julie prompted him.

Hoshi nods, glad to hear that everything she's been saying to him over the past few days is getting some reinforcement.

Trip expects himself to cry, but the tears are not there. With silent deliberation, he begins to flip through the Taylor's photo album.

 _(to be continued)_


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: One more chapter left. I feel like I should apologize for Troshi's encounter on the beach. Let's just say that it was written on a personal favor!

Next time: The gang's back together again!

 **Haven**

 **Chapter Nine**

Over the course of several days, Malcolm's condition slowly improved.

For most of that, he was confined to the double bed in the guest room. He slept a great deal of the day and at such odd intervals that he began to confuse the date. It reminded him of being seven years old and afflicted with chicken pox. The world bustled outside his bedroom window, but he was unable to join them. Instead he was weak, devastatingly weak, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open for an extended period of time.

When he did, he began to tire of the spartan decor of the room. In the midafternoon, a shaft of light cut through the curtains, playing alternating patterns through the latticing of the window. He found himself observing the rotation of the numbers on the bedside chronometer, as well as counting the number of tiles on the ceiling. It was mind numbing as far as self-inflicted chores went, but every time he swung his legs over the side of the bed and attempted to stand, the pain of his injuries proved to be overwhelming.

The very first night after being moved to the family home on the outskirts of the city, he awakes in the predawn hours to the sound of the covers rustling. Slowly, they are drawn back to admit the slim figure of a woman. He's too tired to move, let alone acknowledge her presence. Through slitted eyes and the gradual tilting of the mattress, he can feel T'Pol snuggle up to him and gingerly lay her head on his chest. There, he expects that she listens to the gentle thrum of his heartbeat before falling into deep slumber.

In the morning, she is gone, but is quick to return. He finds little things to complain about, like the mostly liquid diet she feeds him from a spoon. She only raises and eyebrow and humors his good natured attempts at normalizing the matter.

T'Pol reads him a variety of Vulcan legends from a leather bound book, her soft voice relaying him the tales of her childhood. There are stories of sehlats taller than buildings, of fierce warriors and sandstorms that have the capability of ravishing the desert for weeks at a time. At his insistence, she sits as close as she can to him without causing him pain. Propping herself up on her elbows, she lays the book on the pillow and reads.

He watches her lips, the way her mouth forms the words. She doesn't know that her facial expression betrays what's about to happen in the next paragraph. Slowly, Malcolm trails her forearms with his fingers until she can no longer concentrate and rewards him with a short kiss.

This kind of behavior, so atypical for her, concerns him. One night, while she is clad in a dressing gown and busying herself by fluffing the cushions, he broaches the subject.

"You are my husband. Is showing affection towards you not expected?"

That was another thing. Even though there had been no vows exchanged and no words said by a religious authority, they were considered married in the courts of Vulcan law. This took a _little_ getting used to. But he knew that he loved her immensely for her strength, her kindness, and her wit. And now, thanks to him almost being killed, he knew that his feelings were reciprocated.

The two received no further correspondence from Koss or the High Command. The house was empty, almost soulless, without T'Les inhabiting it.

She explains that she is most likely being held in the main detention center of the Ministry of Security, and expresses her hope that her mother is alright. It is almost beyond T'Pol that she could have been a member of a revolutionary action group, but the two agree that it explains nearly all of the woman's strange behavior over the course of the past few months.

Towards the end of the week, his new wife joined him in bed carrying a pile of yellowing documents. She had found them stuffed in an empty panel behind the stasis unit, and each of them bore the distinctive seal of the family.

If T'Les were to be conducting illicit correspondence with Vulcan insurgents, it would make sense for her to communicate with them in a nearly untraceable manner. Together, they studied the lines of looping script looking for clues.

At the bottom of the stack, shoved lengthwise between two innocuous academic papers on antimatter, lay a letter than was truly telling in its nature.

Knowing that her mate could not read the dialect that was written there, T'Pol began to read it aloud. "Lady T'Les, I hope that this letter reaches you in good health. I understand that your own blood is being blamed for the incident at P'Jem. Let it be known that the activities being conducted there were less than honorable. It seems that the crisis of militant action has reached its climax. In order for the reformation of our people to continue as discussed, we must find the artifact. We await your arrival at the sanctuary for further action. Until we meet again and no longer under the cloak of darkness, live long and prosper as Surak would have intended. T'Pau."

As she read, her voice gradually trailed off until the name at the foot of the page was just a whisper. Knowing she couldn't possibly continue, Malcolm gently removed the paper from her hands.

"Dated the third of July, 2151. That was only four days after the incident with the Andorian Imperial Guard," he marveled, his head falling backwards onto the pillow. "The results of your scans of the listening device weren't even released until a week. How did they know?"

She tilts her head in puzzlement. "You should know as well as I that an effective operative has eyes and ears everywhere."

Malcolm shrugs. "Do you have any idea who this T'Pau is?"

The woman sitting across from him stiffens, and he can sense her mental barriers about to slam straight down. Even though it pains him, he sits straight up and seizes her hands.

"In order to help your mother, I have to have more information, darling. You understand that, don't you?" The use of the pet name momentarily distracts her, but neither notice that she intertwines her fingers with his before she starts to speak.

"T'Pau is a common feature on the news frequencies. She is the leader of a clandestine counterculture group that believes that modern Vulcan society has perverted the original teachings of Surak. The militaristic nature of our current governing body disturbs them, as it does myself," she confessed. In all honesty, T'Pol had had doubts about the congenial nature of the High Command ever since their deception at the monastery was uncovered. "Due to the massive political upheaval that was occurring around the time of Surak's death, we only possess fragments of his teachings. The Syrrannites, as they call themselves, strive to purify our race and return all of Vulcan back to what Surak intended."

Malcolm had read enough of the ancient work in the time he had been laid up to know that nonviolence, trust, and emotional discipline were all central tenets of his philosophy. These were certainly not practiced by the current administration of the High Command.

"Do you think V'Las and his lot would find T'Pau's people dangerous enough to silence them?" If so, this extended to T'Les and would explain a majority of the hostility he had experienced at the hands of Havek.

"Undoubtedly," she replied, "our planet is ruled by a majority that attempts to unite many factions. If one province falls to new and radical ideas, there are sure to be others that follow."

"So he's got something to lose." He watches as she tucks the parchments into one of the sleeves of her diaphanous robe. "But what is this artifact that T'Pau writes about?"

She sighs before crawling under the covers with him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I believe they may be referring to the Kir'Shara. An object of myth, assuredly, rumored to contain the teachings of Surak in its entirety."

That would certainly shake things up if the ideals that the High Command had been force feeding the Vulcan people were to be proven immoral. After an extended period of silence, during which both of them were deep in thought, Malcolm felt his bride spoon into his chest. In a woefully butchered attempt to be nonchalant about it, he drapes an arm across her side and over her stomach. It's the most intimate gesture they've shared so far.

"We need more information. In light of everything we know now, I think it would be ridiculous to act immediately."

Soundlessly, she agreed. T'Pol, as much as she was loath to admit it, knew that the High Command would sooner deliberate on an action for hours on end than make a definitive decision. They had nothing but time. Even after all that had transpired over the course of shore leave, she still had faith in her mother and trusted her to not utter a word.

She might never out rightly say that she was in support of the Syrrannite's goals, but Malcolm could surmise as much. However, starting to feel exhaustion radiating from her in waves, he decided to change the subject. "How shall we tell the Captain of our…our…"

"Our marriage?" She completed his sentence while he was still floundering for words. "There's no need, I assure you, for I've already told Ambassador Soval."

Malcolm was agape. _Enterprise_ 's science officer, perhaps the most stringent and avid defender of the antifraternization bylaws, had done _that_?

T'Pol mistook his silence for confusion and rotated her upper body to face him. "You underestimate the depth of their friendship. Even though they may disagree publicly, the Captain and the Ambassador truly value each other as colleagues."

Archer and Soval as friends? Now he _knew_ that he had disappeared down the rabbit hole and truly entered a fantasy realm. "You aren't concerned about what they'll say?"

She blinks, as if she's considered that a thousand times before. "You and I are arguably the two senior officers that are most devoted to our labors. Unless they want to lose the both of us at a time when the entire quadrant is in a veritable upheaval, they will say _nothing_."

Her logic is far from infallible, and although he's still worried about keeping his job, her devotion fills him with an indescribable feeling of joy.

She internally rejoices at the sight of his lips splitting into a broad smile. Neither does she try to force down the sensations that arise when he softly cups the side of her face and brings her forehead in to touch his.

From the far corner of his mind, a thought arises. He'd traveled sixteen light years to get to Vulcan. That was sixteen light years to stay in the company of the host from hell, to discover a new philosophy, and to have the life nearly beat out of him.

But, above all, he had traveled sixteen light years to discover her.

-0-

On their last night of shore leave, Trip exits the bathroom to the sound of dishes clanging from downstairs.

He suspects that Hoshi's purposefully making the noise to get his attention. There was no way that woman was cooking, especially due to the fact that they would be leaving their temporary home in a little less than twelve hours.

Opening the door of the master bedroom to let the steam escape, he called out, "Hon, are you there?"

The noise stops, but is replaced by the sound of footsteps making their way to the opposite end of the house. From the back door, so far away that he can barely hear her, Hoshi replies, "Check your drawers!"

Trip is confused, but as soon as he turns around to see that every drawer of the armoire has been thrown open and divested of his clothing, he understands.

Damn it all.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he thunders down the stairs and to the porch. Sure enough, the white sands of the North Carolina beach are presently littered with nearly every article of clothing he'd brought with him.

Amongst the mess, he is dismayed to see his lover. Hoshi wears one of her more revealing bathing suits, and her ivory skin is set off by the light from the moon.

Even though he knows they're a safe distance from the prying eyes of their neighbors, he still looks left and right before stepping out onto the beach. While he's indulging in this paranoid flight of fancy, Hoshi turns and walks into the ocean until the water laps at the base of her ribcage.

"Woman, are you _crazy_?" He waves his fist at her, hoping she understands that his frustration isn't genuine. They'd been playing small pranks on each other over the past few days; it was how they showed affection in an odd roundabout sort of way.

Her eyes follow the line of his body, stopping at where the towel is only held in place by his hand. Suddenly, a devilish idea pops into her head.

"If you want to show me how pissed off you are, you'll have to come and get me," she answers, putting her hands on her hips.

So it was going to be that way? _Fine_. "Alright, Sato, you asked for it!"

Without further ado, Trip dropped his towel and charged, nude as the day he was born, into the surf.

"Commander Tucker!" She cried, covering her eyes in mock scandal. Really, considering she'd seen everything already, she was a poor actress.

Finally, he reached Hoshi. Grinning lasciviously, he drew her to him and kissed her until her complaints ceased. "There'll be no use of rank here, ma'am."

Bobbing on her toes, she couldn't help but notice how one of his thumbs had snaked its way under the strap of her shorts. Perhaps she wasn't out of ideas just yet.

She initiated another embrace, this time more passionate by tenfold. Just as she was about to give into her desires and wrap her legs around his hips, Trip intervened.

"Hosh! We can't do this, not out here!" He panted, struggling to get the words out.

He had some nerve saying something like that, especially considering his bout of streaking only seconds before. In a slight imitation of something she'd said only a few days prior, she replied innocently, "I thought that shore leave was about trying new things."

 _Damn_. He had to admit, there really was no use arguing with logic like that.

 _(to be continued, one last time)_


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Of all places we could have ended up, we find ourselves here. This is the end of the line for _Haven_ as you and I know it. But fear not, intrepid readers, for there will be a sequel which will in effect rewrite the entire Kir'Shara arc. I hope to begin work on the first chapter as soon as possible.

And now, time for some acknowledgements. Thanks to my beta BonesBird, who keeps me in line even though I somehow manage to bungle the technical details. Thanks to brankel1, Belen09, and LoyaulteMeLie for their consistent commentary and support. Thanks to all of the followers whose usernames I can't remember, and those who favorited or just read along. I couldn't have done it without any of you.

 **Haven**

 **Chapter Ten**

Jonathan Archer was the first to arrive at the shuttlepod that morning. It was a few moments until eleven and he was more excited to get back to work than he had been in months.

Before he went to the transit station, however, he had a bit of unfinished business to attend to. His friend Admiral Forrest, sitting behind a desk at the opposite end of the room, had declared the briefing on the incident aboard the _Seleya_ concluded. It was astounding how close he had come to being accused of causing the death of the ship's complement. His reaction to this allegation had been the final nail in the coffin, so to speak, that contributed to him being dismissed for a few days of recreation.

He had never been so grateful to receive an order in his life.

Hiking alone had been a terrible idea, but it was a good thing that Captain Hernandez had the inability to take a refusal at face value. The captivating woman had followed him up the mountain, all the while promising to help him rediscover the humanity he had lost in the Expanse. Without her, Jon might have spent the entire ten days wallowing in self-pity.

Truth be told, he _still_ wasn't sure why they had stopped seeing each other. Regulation be damned. He was too proud to let go of a good thing when he found it.

He was joined after a few moments by an enthusiastic Trip Tucker, who looked incredibly well-rested and very tan. On his arm, struggling to contain her giggles behind her palm, was his communications officer.

"I take it you two enjoyed your shore leave?" Jon made quick note of their body language and how they exchanged knowing glances before they replied. He should really say something about how fraternizing within the ranks was against fleet bylaws, but how hypocritical would that be when he had several dozen illicit and suggestive messages from Erika waiting to be read on his PADD?

Hoshi nodded. "Yes sir. We spent every bit of the ten days on the beaches of North Carolina, Kitty Hawk to be precise. It's beautiful down there. You really need to visit it sometime."

"Well, to be honest, Ensign, I kind of had my hands full here in town," he replied, not meaning for it to sound so allusive.

"I know you did for a fact," Trip said wryly, his famous shit-eating grin on display.

His hands came up to his temples out of habit. "Damn it. That woman can't keep her mouth shut to save her life, can she?"

"It wasn't her." As the hatch slid open, Trip seized his and Hoshi's bags and stepped into the pod. "Don't you know that ladies can hardly keep secrets from friends?"

Jonathan assumed he was speaking of Veronica, Erika's second. He knew that the two had gone to school together, which pretty much made Trip privy to all of her secrets by default. But there was something to be said about discretion. And even though he knew that Erika was celebrating getting back together with an old flame, he had a mental note to speak to her about as much.

"Where are Malcolm and T'Pol?" Hoshi wondered aloud. "If they don't get here within the next few minutes, they'll have to be beamed up later."

He shrugged, for the moment not really caring where his science officer and master of the armory were. Jon had bigger fish to fry. Yet, they were two of the most stringent officers he knew. It was unusual for either of them to be late.

"I checked the space dock transport request list before we left," Trip confessed, but it was clear by the way he leaned in that he was about to impart some morsel of gossip upon them. Presently, the transport was beginning to fill with their fellow crewmembers, so he had to be discreet. "They've arranged for a private pod to arrive directly at our front door, probably to avoid going through customs on the surface. A straight shot from Vulcan, it seems."

Jon raised his eyebrows while Hoshi exclaimed, "They went _together_!"

Although he could tell that his fellow officers were less than convinced, he shrugged and said, "She probably went to go see her family, and Reed probably has friends at the Terran compound." In the back of his mind, he kept replaying what Soval had told him about the couple after the briefing concluded. It was his duty to keep the nature of their relationship a secret for the time being.

Hoshi grins, amused by how ignorant the men appeared to be to the truth. She would have to confirm her suspicions at a later date.

The hatch slides shut and the pilot begins the preflight checklist. As he looks over his shoulder, she can see that it's none other than Travis Mayweather operating the controls. She should have known that he couldn't resist an opportunity to fly. She watches how he scans over the assembled crew and offers each person his signature toothy grin. It was amazing how she'd missed her friend's eternal joviality in such a short period of time. Yes, shore leave had been fantastic, but it was good to be back.

-0-

Save for a few things added or upgraded, the ship was exactly like he had left it.

Malcolm had taken a short detour to the quartermaster's domain to pick up his uniforms for the next week. Crewman Morales had taken in his bruised and swollen face, his knuckles that were still wrapped in gauze and strips of paper tape, but said nothing. This pleased him.

It was difficult to ignore the discomfort that manifested itself in his chest and abdomen, but he hoped he could disguise it with ease. He knew that he was still walking with a pronounced limp, which he tried to minimize as much as possible even though his thighs and calves fairly screamed with pain.

Because of his injuries, it took nearly twice the amount of time than normal to reach his quarters. Entering the access code, he steps across the threshold of his room.

He's not surprised to see T'Pol there, still dressed for leisure, removing belongings from a container and placing them around to her liking. They are, after all, married—no matter how _odd_ it felt to acknowledge that—and it was expected for them to be comfortable in either place.

"Have you received any messages since we arrived?" Sitting on the edge of his bed, he watched her disappear into the closet with several changes of her colorful catsuits.

Her voice sounds tinny and far away when she answers. "The Captain requests our presence for dinner tonight. It seems that—"

Malcolm hears a crash, followed by the use of a rather undignified Vulcan swear word. In a moment, he's up from his seat and crosses the room in two strides.

Seeing how she's now surrounded by stacks of his laundry, he knows exactly what has happened. "I should have told you, dear. The top shelf is a little unsteady and collapses if there's too much weight on it."

She gives him an incredulous look, as if to say, _you think_? Nevertheless, the two set aside their pride and begin to clean up the mess.

Maybe it was the way she bit her lip in gentle deliberation as she organized his leisure shirts by sleeve length, just the way they had been before she'd arrived. It might have been the pointed glances she kept giving him whenever she thought his back was turned. Whatever the case may be, Malcolm suddenly felt as if the lights in that tiny airless closet had been turned up to eleven.

They're up against the wall in a moment, the uniforms she'd been carrying sliding away from her fingers. T'Pol has never seen this level of intensity in his eyes, even when he was in the throes of fighting for her in the _kal-if-fee_. It both frightens and intrigues her, these emotions than her human possesses. But she prefers not to dwell on it while her fingers tangle in his hair and his lips are on her neck, nipping at her every so often so that there's no doubt that he's on a mission of an entirely different kind.

She couldn't think. But, oh, could she _feel_.

-0-

A few hours later, Jonathan is so engrossed in what he's reading that he barely notices his best friend enter.

He holds the PADD in his lap, far from prying eyes, as he pours over what's on the screen. A small smirk adorns his lips when he sees the most recent message, which includes a picture. Erika is dressed in red, the color he thinks suits her best, and she's giving the camera such a smoldering look that it's a wonder the camera hadn't burst into flames when she took it. Something is moving in his peripheral vision, but he has better things to focus on. However, when Trip saddles up to him and taps him on the shoulder, he nearly falls out of his chair.

"Whatcha readin', Jon?" He asked, almost knowingly.

He grunts, then clears his throat. Anything to force down the redness spreading its way across his cheeks. "Crew complements," he manages to choke out.

"Sure," Trip says, because he's so convinced. When he goes to sit across from him, Jonathan darkens the screen and discreetly slips the device between his legs. His response would have to wait.

"I gotta say, after ten days I've really missed Chef's cookin'. What's for dinner?"

"I don't know, Trip," he replies.

Because he knows he hates it, the engineer crosses his ankles and places them on the tabletop. "Was I called here to catch up, just the two of us, _or_ —"

Jon takes a swig on his coffee, preparing to drop the rhetorical bazooka he'd been planning on. "Nope. We're also expected Malcolm, T'Pol, and your girlfriend." He raises his eyebrow in an unspoken challenge.

He sighs. "Damn, you caught us. Listen, I swear to you that this won't interfere with our work."

Trip looks so nervous, quite possibly fearing that his Captain would tell him to cut things off with Hoshi. But the rules they so often obeyed were misguided as it was, and he just couldn't do that to his best friend. "It better stay that way. Don't worry, I know that you two are too good of officers to get sloppy. Just keep things on the down low for now."

He looks relieved. "Thanks, Jon. I promise you that not everyone on _Enterprise_ is hooking up with each other. Or, at least, I _hope_ they aren't. Either way, what are you going to say about it? Your lover's the Captain of an identical ship!"

Archer was about to shoot back with something that would hopefully wipe that lopsided grin off of his face when Hoshi entered the room.

"Hello, boys," she says. Trip notices that she's carrying two mugs of tea instead of one, but she waves him off before he can ask about it. "Oh, this one? I'm treating our resident Vulcan to my favorite brew. We've got a reason to celebrate."

"Do we, now?" Jon prompts her cautiously, fearing that Malcolm and T'Pol's secret was about to be blown.

A steward comes in to take their orders, but Hoshi keeps talking. "I met her in the hallway outside her quarters. She was carrying several changes of uniform and other personal affects. She wanted to know where a _specific_ person lay his head at night."

Good lord. Now there was really nothing Jon could do. From across the table, he sees Trip's face morph from confusion to comprehension to utter shock. Finally, he cried, "Well, I'll be damned! It seems that a lot can come about in ten days."

Hoshi tittered at that. "You're one to talk, Tucker. Anyway, it seems that the two of them are definitely in cahoots."

"Cahoots?" The expression is unfamiliar to him.

"You know, _dating_!" She exclaims, before sitting back in her chair. "Maybe I picked up a phrase or two when I was in North Carolina."

So the majority of Malcolm and T'Pol's secret remained unknown. Jon couldn't help but be relieved. The last thing he needed was for the crew to be focused on petty gossip on the night before they were to resume their mission.

The door slid open then, emitting the forms of the two officers in question. They were tardy for the event, thoroughly disheveled, and looked very, _very_ guilty.

"Hey ya'll! Long time, no see!" Trip greeted them, a little too enthusiastically.

Malcolm looked at Sato, who was trying hard not to grin at his bride over the rim of her mug. He saw how T'Pol looked away and shifted uncomfortably, as if she knew she had done something wrong. Then his eyes fell on Trip, who was striving mightily to contain his amusement.

He just knew that the Brit had to be cursing his rotten luck to high heaven.

"It is a pleasure to see you again," T'Pol said evenly, being sure to make eye contact with every person seated around the table. It was not a threatening glare, but an expression of welcoming. When she finally sat, it was a little too close to Malcolm to be classified as a professional distance.

So palpable was the lack of conversation afterwards that Archer felt like he had to fill the void of conversation. Trying to be as casual as possible, he asked, "Did you two have fun on Vulcan?"

The science officer raised an eyebrow at that, meeting his eyes directly as if to confirm that he really knew what she thought he did. When there was a confirmation, the barest hint of a nod, she stated, "The events that have come to pass over the past ten days have been _intriguing_ to say in the least."

The man sitting beside her looked like he wanted to die. Seizing the opportunity to make him squirm, Trip inquired, "So, Mal, did you meet any old friends at the Terran compound in the capital?"

Malcolm takes an exaggerated sip of his coffee, knowing he had to tread carefully. "No, I can't say that I remember doing so."

The southerner slides his legs off the table and leans forward on his elbows. "That's weird, because I hear that the former professor of Newtonian mechanics we both had is the head educator at the preparatory school there. If he saw your name on the boarding list, he must have come and saw you."

Really, this was getting ridiculous. Malcolm was going to great lengths to avoid making eye contact with Trip, knowing that in this matter he was sure to be a rotten liar. "I didn't happen to run into Commodore Hendrickson while I was there."

As the steward entered with their meals, Trip decided to go for the jugular. "Maybe I should send him a message asking if—"

Jonathan decides to intervene before the situation can get any more awkward. To his surprise, his science officer beats him to it.

"Commander Tucker, any further queries are unnecessary. He only stayed at the compound for a short period of time, then spent the rest of the week at my mother's home." It was a lie, but a whole lot less of one than her husband was about to talk himself into.

Beside her, Malcolm's head falls into his hands and he exhales deeply.

He hadn't thought it was possible for Trip's smile to get any wider. Jon watches as he reaches across the table and jostles his shoulder.

"Say, Mal! That sounds downright _festive_. I bet you saw the sights while you were there." The innuendo is not lost on any of them.

The armory officer's reply is almost lost behind his hands. His reply comes as a mumble: "I bet you did too."

Trip sets his fork down, feigning offense. It was in his nature to enjoy a spirited exchange of words. "What did you just say, _Loo-tenant_?"

Almost in synchronization, T'Pol and Archer sigh.

-0-

 _Enterprise_ is set to depart from spacedock in a little less than six hours, so the agent is advised that his mission must be completed expeditiously.

It's the time of the night when gamma shift is in full swing, and the officers on duty find themselves with little to accomplish. Many have left their stations to go to the mess hall or visit with colleagues. For this reason, it was chosen.

The lights are dimmed to simulate an artificial dusk. The operative enters by way of close range transporter and finds himself in the ship's armory.

So the coordinates they had received had been correct. Ducking behind a crate of machinery, he waits until the last officer has stepped away from the control panel and out of sight.

He moves quickly, and to the innocent watcher it may seem like his feet never touch the ground. He _knows_ he can hack into the correct schematics from here. It's what he's been trained to do.

There's a close call when another human passes by in the corridor. Pressing himself against the side of the control panel, the intruder all but disappears.

The overlord of this domain, the developer of these plans, is very good at securing his records. But not good enough. He knows that a prototype lies hidden somewhere in one of the crates, but he doesn't want to waste his time.

Finally, the graphics he wants flash before his eyes. The name of the project is clear labeled, with a single word: _Bostanai_. Below it, its purpose: _multichamber grenade and incendiary device_.

It's exactly what his superior had been searching for. The trespasser slides in his data key, downloads the schematic, and seems to vanish into the ether.

On the other side of the ship, laying in her lover's arms, T'Pol of Vulcan shifts in her sleep.

 **The End**

 **Sequel Coming Soon**


End file.
